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. ENGLISH LITERATURE 



NINETEENTH CENTURY 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 



NINETEENTH CENTURY: 



ON THE PLAN OF THE AUTHOR's " COMPENDIUM OF ENGLISH 

literature/^ and supplementary to it. 



DESIGNED FOR 



COLLEGES AND ADVANCED CLASSES IN SCHOOLS, 



AS WELL AS FOR PRIVATE READING. 



BY 

CHARLES D: CLEVELAND. 




PHILADELPH^' "^ '" 

E. C. & J. BIDDLE, No. 6 SOUTH FIFTH STREET. 

BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. NEW YORK: C. M. SAXTON. 

BALTIMORE: GUSHING & BAILEY. CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY & CO. 

NEW ORLEANS : JOHN BALL. 

1851. 



«. 



«^^ 



^"'0", 

\^''^ 



Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by 

CHARLES D. CLEVELAND, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



PHILADELPHIA : 
T. K. AND P. G. COLLINS, PRINTERS. 



PEEFACE 



Before I began to collect my materials for the " Compendium 
of English Literature/' I felt that I could do no sort of justice 
to the subject should I come down later than 1800; and it was 
therefore my original intention to publish a similar work, em- 
bracing the most prominent authors, dead and living, who have 
flourished since the beginning of the present century. Such is 
the present work. I have therefore but few prefatory remarks 
to make respecting it; for as it is upon the same plan as the 
"Compendium," I would refer to the preface of that, for my 
object and design in preparing both. 

In this work, as in the other, some may not find a favorite 
author noticed, nor favorite pieces inserted of many whose names 
do appear. To such I would say that I have often been embar- 
rassed from the great variety and richness of the materials before 
me, often balancing, for a long time, what to take and what to 
reject; and those who know something of the nature of such a 
work will be most ready to make due allowance for my errors 
both of omission and of commission. But one thing I can truly 
say — I have endeavored to represent each author who has a place 
here, fairly and honestly, according to the best of my judgment, 
influenced neither by fear nor favor. "Where, for instance, any 
author has shown, by his writings at difierent periods, that his heart 

1* 



VI PREFACE. 

was particularly and deeply interested in some one great subject, 
it was clearly my duty, regardless of the censures of any clique 
or party or set of men, to let his views upon that subject appear. 
To have acted otherwise would have been alike cowardly and dis- 
honest; and rather than be guilty of such treachery to any writer, 
I would that another edition of my work should never see the 
light. 

In conclusion, I would only remark that I can wish no greater 
favor shown to this work than has been extended to its predecessor. 
Errors in judgment and taste may doubtless be pointed out, and 
most happy shall I be, before the work is put into a permanent 
form, to receive, from any quarter, any suggestions that may cor- 
rect them. But, as I have before said, I have honestly endeavored 
to do my authors justice; and, having made my book for no classes 
or sects, for no particular latitudes, and for no special market, but 
to promote the cause of sound learning and education in harmony 
with pure Christian morals, the best interests of humanity, and . 
the cause of universal truth, I now commit it to the judgment of 
an intelligent public. 

CHARLES D. CLEVELAND. 

Philadelphia, July 4, 1851. 



ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS. 





Page 




Page 


Alison, Archibald, 


396 


Irving, Edward, 


337 


Arnold, Thomas, 


420 


Jameson, Mrs., 


705 


Baillie, Joanna, 


564 


Jeffrey, Francis, 


531 


Barbauld, Anna Lsetitia, 


178 


Knowles, Herbert, 


122 


Barton, Bernard, 


512 


Knox, Vicesimus, 


136 


Beattie, James, 


43 


Lamb, Charles, 


342 


Blair, Hugh, 


36 


Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 


639 


Bloomfield, Robert, 


152 


Mackenzie, Henry, 


238 


Bowles, William Lisle, 


601 


Mackintosh, James, 


284 


Brougham, Henry (Lord), 


726 


Maclean, Lsetitia Elizabeth, 


402 


Brown, Thomas, 


124 


Mant, Richard, 


504 


Brownwig, Elizabeth Barrett, 


666 


Milman, Henry Hart, 


634 


Brydges, Sir Egerton, 


381 


Mitchell, Thomas, 


458 


Butler, Charles, 


267 


Montagu, Elizabeth, 


31 


Byron, George Gordon, 


167 


Montgomery, James, 


584 


Campbell, Thomas, 


449 


Moore, Thomas, 


606 


Carpenter, Lant, 


410 


More, Hannah, 


295 


Carter, Elizabeth, 


63 


Norton, Caroline Elizabeth, 


657 


Chalmers, Thomas, 


489 


Opie, Amelia, 


626 


Chapone, Hester, 


25 


Paley, William, 


54 


Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 


323 


Pollok, Robert, 


200 


Cook, Eliza, 


682 


Rogers, Samuel, 


572 


Crabbe, George, 


272 


Scott, Walter, 


250 


Cumberland, Richard, 


95 


Seward, Anna, 


80 


Drake, Nathan, 


367 


Sharp, Granville, 


112 


Dymond, Jonathan, 


207 


Smith, Charlotte, 


84 


Elliott, Ebenezer, 


521 


Smith, Horace, 


507 


Erskine, Thomas, 


159 


Smith, Sydney, 


473 


Foster, John, 


443 


Southey, Robert, 


429 


Grahame, James, 


106 


Tighe, Mary, 


89 


Gurney, Joseph John, 


494 


Tupper, Martin F., 


693 


Hall, Robert, 


226 


Warren, Samuel, 


689 


Hazlitt, William, 


217 


Warton, Joseph, 


17 


Heber, Reginald, 


192 


Whately, Richard, 


673 


Hemans, Felicia, 


356 


White, Henry Kirke, 


71 


Hood, Thomas, 


462 


Wilberforce, William, 


317 


Howitt, Mary, 


720 


Wilson, John, 


619 


Howitt, William, 


713 


Wolfe, Charles, 


144 


Hunter, Anne, 


134 


Wordsworth, William, 


549 


Ireland, John, 


415 







CONTENTS. 



Joseph Warton, 

Biographical Sketch, 17 

Letter to his Father, 17 

Ode to Liberty, 19 

Ode to Content, 21 

Poets not universally Poor, 21 

Pope as a Poet, 23 

Hester Chapone, 

Biographical Sketch, 25 

Ode to Solitude, 27 
On the Government of the Temper, 28 

Elizabeth Montagu, 

Biographical Sketch, 31 
The World seen in its True Light, 32 

A View of Life, 33 

Character of the Miser, 34 

Shakspeare and his Times, 35 

Shakspeare's Tragic Power, 35 

Hugh Blair, 

Biographical Sketch, 36 

His Sermons (note), 37 

On the Cultivation of Taste, 38 
Delicacy and Correctness of Taste, 39 

On Sublimity, 40 

Proper Distribution of Time, 42 

James Beattie, 

Biographical Sketch, 43 
Anecdote about his eldest Son 

(note), 44 

Public and Private Education, 46 
Superstitions and Music of the 

Highlanders, 47 
Opening Stanzas of the Minstrel, 49 

The Poet's Childhood, 50 

Morning, 52 

The Humble Wish, 53 

The Hermit, 53 

William Paley, 

Biographical Sketch, 54 



Humility, 57 
The World made with a Benevo- 
lent Design, 68 
Nature contemplated with refer- 
ence to an Intelligent Author, 60 
Prayer, 62 
Character of Paul, 62 
'« 

Elizabeth Carter, 

Biographical Sketch, 63 

Her domestic habits (note), 64 

Religion and Superstition, 66 

Ode to Wisdom, 69 

Henry Kirke White, 

Biographical Sketch, 71 

Byron's Lines on his Character, 71 

Sonnet in his Sickness, 74 

Sonnet to Consumption, 74 

Solitude, 74 

Ode to Disappointment, 75 

To an Early Primrose, 76 

The Star of Bethlehem, 77 

A Hymn for Family Worship, 77 

True Philosophy, 78 

Advice to the Young, 79 

Anna Seward, 

Biographical Sketch, 80 

The Anniversary, 81 

Sonnet, 83 

The Grave of Youth, 83 

Charlotte Smith, 
Biographical Sketch, 84 
Her Husband's Liberation, 85 
To the River Arun, 85 
Sonnet — to the Moon, 86 
On the Departure of the Nightin- 
gale, 87 
The Happiness of Childhood, 87 
English Scenery, 87 



CONTENTS. 



Mary Tighe, 

Biographical Sketch, 89 

Love must be Fondly Cherished, 89 
Hagar in the Desert, 91 

The Lily, 92 

On Receiving a branch of Mezereon, 93 

Richard Cumberland, 
Biographical Sketch, 95 
Goldsmith's Lines on him (note), 95 
The Progress of Poetry, 96 
^schylus and Shakspeare com- 
pared, 99 
Observations on Style, 100 
Character of Goldsmith, 102 
Johnson at the Tea-table, 103 
Character of Johnson, 104 
Lines on Dr. Johnson, 105 

James Grahame, 

Biographical Sk^ch, 106 

Sabbath Morning, 107 

A Summer Sabbath Walk, 108 

A Winter's Sabbath Walk, llO 
Persecution of the Covenanters, 111 

The Poor Man's Funeral, 112 

Granville Sharp, 

Biographical Sketch, 112 

His efforts in the cause of Free- 
dom, 114 

Letter of Dr. Benjamin Rush 

(note), 114 

The Duty of Pleading for the Op- 
pressed, 115 

His various Works, 117 

The Inscription on his Monument 

(note), 117 

The Love of God and our Neigh- 
bor, 118 

The Duty of showing Mercy, 120 

Herbert Knowles, 
Biographical Sketch, 122 

Lines written in the Richmond 

Churchyard, 123 



Thomas Brown, 
Biographical Sketch, 
The Power of Habit, 
Benevolence, 
Character of Howard, 
The Goodness of God, 



124 

126 
127 
128 
129 



His Poetry, Paradise of Coquettes, 132 
Soliloquy after the Ball, 133 

The Changefulness of Woman, 133 
Woman's Conversational Powers, 134 



Anne Hunter, 
Biographical Sketch, 
To-morrow, 
The Lot of Thousands, 
To my Daughter, 



134 
134 
135 
135 



ViCESiMus Knox, 

Biographical Sketch, 136 

A Winter Evening, 137 

The Periodical Essayists, 138 
On the Happiness of Domestic 

Life, 141 

On Simplicity of Style, 142 

Charles Wolfe, 
Biographical Sketch, 144 
The Burial of Sir John Moore, 145 
Song, 146 
Song— To Mary, 147 
The Frailty of Beauty, 147 
Remember thy Creator, 148 
The Worldling's and the Christ- 
ian's Yoke, 150 
Blindness of Milton, 151 



Robert Bloomfield, 
Biographical Sketch, 
Wood-scenery, 
Milking, 
Lambs at Play, 
The Skylark, 



152 
154 
154 
155 
155 
The "Crazy Kate" of Cowper 

(note), 156 

The Distracted Female, 157 

The Widow to her Hour-glass, 158 

Thomas Erskine, 
Biographical Sketch, 159 

Traitorous Acts necessary to Guilt, 161 
Stanton's sketch of Erskine (note), 161 
Principles of the Law of Libel, 162 
The brightest ornaments of our 

Race, Christians, 164 

George Gordon Byron, 

Biographical Sketch, 167 

The Dying Gladiator, 168 

Military Schools (note), 169 

Apostrophe to the Ocean, 170 

Night at Corinth, 171 
A Calm Night at Lake Geneva, 172 

A Storm at the same Lake,] 172 

Modern Greece, ' 173 

Solitude, 174 

Destruction of Sennacherib, 174 

The East, 175 

The Coliseum by Moonlight, 175 

The Shipwreck, 176 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



Anna L^titja Barbauld, 

Biographical Sketch, 178 

On Education, 180 
Sins of Government, Sins of the 

Nation, 183 

What is War? 185 

The Mouse's Petition, 186 

A Character, 187 

Hymn to Content, 188 

To Wisdom, 189 

To William Wilberforce, 190 

Ye are the Salt of the Earth, 191 

Reginald Hebeb, 
Biographical Sketch, 192 
Nations responsible to God, 193 
The Stream of Life, 194 
Palestine, 195 
The Israelites delivered from op- 
pression, 195 
The Rise of Salem, 196 
Missionary Hymn, 197 
To his Wife, 198 
The Death of his Brother, 199 
Christmas Hymn, 199 

Robert Pollok, 

Biographical Sketch, 200 

Happiness, 201 

Happiness of Childhood, 202 

The Miser, 202 

Friendship, 203 

Communings with Nature, 204 

Nature's Teachings, 205 

Love, 205 

Jonathan Dymond, 
Biographical Sketch, 207 
Lines on his Grave (note), 208 
Love the Test of Christian Prin- 
ciple, 209 
Human, subordinate to Divine 

Law, 210 

Great Wealth not desirable, 211 

Duelling, 212 

The Power of Non-Resistance, 214 

Slavery, 215 

William Hazlitt, 

Biographical Sketch, 217 
Literature of the Age of Elizabeth, 218 

Macbeth and Richard the Third, 222 

Lady Macbeth, 224 

Hamlet, 224 
Shakspeare's Female Characters, 225 

Robert Hall, 

Biographical Sketch, 226 



( Death of the Princess Charlotte, 228 
The Happy Prospects of the Right- 
eous, 230 
Henry Martyn and David Brainerd, 231 
True Friendship, 231 
Homer and Milton, 232 
Impolicy of Intolerance, 233 
Miseries of War, 234 
The Bible, 236 
The Adaptation of Christianity, 237 
Benefits of Retirement, 238 
Dr. Priestley, 238 

Henry Mackenzie, 

Biographical Sketch, 238 

Story of Nancy Collins, 240 

The Homespun Family, 242 

The Mushroom Family, 246 

Walter Scott, 

Biographical Sketch, 250 
His noble efforts to liquidate his 

debts (note), 262 

The Last Minstrel, 254 

Description of Melrose Abbey, 25Q 

Love of Country, 257 

Lock Katrine, 257 

Time, 258 

Rebecca's Hymn, 259 

Meg Merrilies' Song, 259 

Ellen— The Lady of the Lake, 260 

A Morning in the Highlands, 261 

The Departure of the Gypsies, 264 

Charles Butler, 

Biographical Sketch, 267 

Lord Chatham's Eloquence, 267 

Mr. Fox and Mr. Pitt, 269 
Fox and Pitt compared, by H. B. 

Stanton (note), 270 

Massillon and Bourdaloue, 271 

George Crabbe, 

Biographical Sketch, ' 272 

The Parish Workhouse, 274 

The Almshouse Physician, 275 

Phffibe Dawson, 276 

The Hardships of the Poor, 278 

A Betrothed Pair in Humble Life, 279 

Song of the Crazed Maiden, 281 

Letter to Edmund Burke, 282 

James Mackintosh, 

Biographical Sketch, 284 

Death of his Wife, 287 

Conversation and Letters, 287 

Johnson's Lives of the Poets, 288 

Grotiusj 290 



CONTENTS. 



Dugald Stewart, 291 
The Progressiveness of the Race, 293 

The Blessings of a Free Press, 294 

Hannah More, 

Biographical Sketch, 295 

War, 297 

Oppression, 297 

Faith in Humble Life, 299 

A Riddle, 300 

Importance of Trifles, 300 

The Two Weavers, 301 

The Theatre— Shakspeare, 302 
The Proper Education of Females, 306 

The Habit of Attention, 308 

Qualities preferable to Genius, 309 

Effects of Light Reading, 310 

The Hand of God in History, 310 

The End of Female Education, 312 

God rules the Nations, 314 

William Wilberforce, 
Biographical Sketch, 317 
Letter of John Wesley (note), 318 
The Abolition of the Slave Trade, 320 
The Reward attendant on Well- 
doing, 321 
The Eff'ects of Religion, 322 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 

Biographical Sketch, 323 

Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni, 326 

To my Infant, 328 
Qualities essential to the Teacher, 328 

To an Infant, 329 
Reflections on leaving a place of 

Retirement, 329 
Importance of a Correct Use of 

Terms, 331 

The Depth of the Conscience, 332 

Truth must and will Prevail, 333 

Milton, 335 

The Morality of Shakspeare, 336 
The Combination in Shakspeare's 

Character, 336 

Edward Irving, 

Biographical Sketch, 337 

Character of David, 338 

Charles Lamb, 

Biographical Sketch, 342 

The Housekeeper, 344 

On the Family Name, 344 

The Sabbath Bells, 344 

Shakspeare cannot be acted, 345 

Confessions of an Inebriate, 346 

A Quakers' Meeting, 349 



The two Races of Mfn, 352 

Filial Afi'ection, 355 

Felicia Hemans, 

Biographical Sketch, 356 

Scenery of the Lakes (note), 357 

The Voice of Spring, 358 

The Graves of a Household, 359 

The Treasures of the Deep, 360 

The Stranger's Heart, 361 

The Bride's Farewell, 361 

The Landing of the Pilgrims, 362 

The Homes of England, 363 
Evening Prayer at a Girls' School, 364 

Bring Flowers, 365 

The Hour of Prayer, 366 

The Agony in the Garden, 366 

Nathan Drake, 
Biographical Sketch, 367 

Moral Tendency of Addison's 

writings, 368 

Tatler, Guardian, and Spectator, 372 
Influence of Addison's writings 

(note), 373 

Character of Dr. Johnson, 376 

Bishop Home's apology for John- 
son (note), 379 

Sir Egerton Brtdges, 

Biographical Sketch, 381 

His habits (note), 382 
The best Poets most Studious 

(note), 383 

Sir Walter Raleigh, 384 

William Collins, 386 

John Milton, 388 

Milton and Gray compared, 390 

Gibbon, 392 

Doctor Johnson, 393 

Solitude, 394 

Posthumous Fame, 395 

The Cunning Successful, 396 

Archibald Alison, 
Biographical Sketch, 396 

Influence of Association, 397 

The Pleasure of Acquiring Know- 
ledge, 398 
The Use and Abuse of Amuse- 
ments, 399 

LjETItia Elizabeth Maclean, 
Biographical Sketch, 402 

Success alone Seen, 403 

The Little Shroud, 404 

The Widow's Mite, 405 



CONTENTS. 



xin 



Time arresting the Career of Plea- 
sure, 406 
Erato, 406 
The Polar Star, 408 
Her last Letter, 409 

Lant Carpenter, 
Biographical Sketch, 410 

The Regulation of the Sensible 

Pleasures, 411 

John Ireland, 
Biographical Sketch, 415 

Sufferings of the Early Christians, 415 
" The Life that now is," the 

Christian's, 418 

Thomas Arnold, 
Biographical Sketch, 420 

His Character (note), 421 

Extract from his Journal, 422 

The Value of Classical Education, 423 
The Puritans, 425 

The Encouragements of the 

Schoolmaster, 426 

The Preacher and Schoolmaster 

compared (note), 426 

The World our Country, 427 

The Oxford Conspirators, 428 

Robert Southey, 
Biographical Sketch, 429 

Poetical Letter, 430 

His Contributions to the Quarterly 

(note), 431 

Coleridge's opinion of Southey 

(note), 432 

Wilson's do. do. 

(note), 432 

France — Bonaparte, 433 

The Battle of Blenheim, 434 

The Immortality of Love, 436 

The Complaints of the Poor, 436 

To a Spider, 437 

Remembrance, 438 

The Old Man's Comforts, 440 

For a Monument at Oxford, 440 

Ode written during the War with 

America, 441 

John Foster, 
Biographical Sketch, 443 

Changes from Youth to Age, 444 

Advantages of Decision of Cha- 
racter, 445 
Character of Franklin, 447 



Thomas Campbell, 
Biograp Sketch, 

2 



Dr. Beattie's account of his Death 

(note), 450 

The Mother and her Child, 451 

The Advancement of Society, 452 

Man made to be Free, 452 

Picture of Domestic Love, 453 

Hope beyond the Grave, 454 

The Soldier's Dream, 455 

The Last Man, 456 

Chaucer and Windsor, 457 

The Beech Tree's Petition, 458 



Thomas Mitchell, 




Biographical Sketch, 


458 


Socrates, 


459 


Plato, 


461 



Thomas Hood, 

Biographical Sketch, 462 
A Parental Ode to my Infant Son, 463 

I Remember, I Remember, 464 

The Song of the Shirt, 465 

The Lady's Dream, 467 

Faithless Sally Brown, 469 

The Poor Laborer, 471 

Sydney Smith, 
Biographical Sketch, 473 

Foundation of the Edinburgh Re- 
view, 473 
Characteristics of Modern Ser- 
mons, 476 
Female Education, 476 
Cost of Military Glory, 481 
Castlereagh, Canning, and Grattan, 482 
Character of Sir James Mackin- 
tosh, 483 
The Curse of War, 485 
Conspiracy of the Pope, 487 
The French Invasion, 487 
Progress of Reform, 488 

Thomas Chalmers, 

Biographical Sketch, 489 

Virtue and Vice contrasted, 490 

The Supremacy of Conscience, 492 

The Barbarities of War, 493 

Joseph John Gurney, 

Biographical Sketch, 494 

The Teachings of Christianity, 496 

Love due from Man to M 'n, 498 
Importance of accurate Mental 

Habits, 499 

Effects of Emancipation, 501 



Richard Mant, 
449 Biographical Sketch, 



604 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



True Knowledge, 504 

The Lord's Day, 505 

The Church Bells, 505 

The Drop of Water, 606 

Prayer, 506 

Horace Smith, 
Biographical Sketch, 507 

Rejected Addresses (note), 607 

Address to the Mummy, 508 

To his Daughter, 509 

The Baby's Debut, 510 

Bernard Barton, 
Biographical Sketch, 512 

Human Life, 513 

Spiritual Worship, 514 

Time's Takings and Leavings, 515 
A Christian is the highest style of 

Man, 515 

A Word for Peace, 517 

Stanzas to a Friend on her Mar- 
riage, 518 
Bruce and the Spider, 519 
To the Skylark, 520 

Ebenezer Elliott, 
Biographical Sketch, 521 

Poor Andrew, 522 

The Home of Taste, 524 

Saturday, 524 
Rub or Rust, 525 

The Press, 526 

Forest Worship, 527 

Flowers for the Heart, 628 

Sleep, 528 

The Grinder, 629 

Apostrophe to Futurity, 530 

A Poet's Prayer, 630 

Francis Jeffrey, 

Biographical Sketch, 531 
Edinburgh Review, contributors 

to (note), 532 
Edinburgh Review, establishment 

. of, 532 
Edinburgh Review, subjects dis- 
cussed, 534 
The Perishable nature of a Poet's 

Fame, 537 
Landscape Beauty and its associ- 
ated Pleasures, 540 
James Watt — Steam Engine, 542 
Shakspeare, 543 
Jonathan Swift, 547 

William Wordsworth, 

Biographical Sketch, 549 



Lord Jeffrey's matured opinion of, 653 

The Old Cumberland Beggar, 653 

Lucy, 657 

A Pleasant Youth, 658 

A Portrait, 559 

To a Highland Girl, 560 

The World is too much with Us, 561 

London, 562 

Milton, 662 

We are Seven, .562 



Joanna Baillie, 
Biographical Sketch, 
Her interview with Lord Jeffrey 

(note). 
To a Child, 

A Mother to her waking Infant, 
The Kitten, 
Birthday Lines to her Sister, 

Samuel Rogers, 
Biographical Sketch, 
Early Recollections, 
Historic Associations, 
Pleasures of Memory, 
Human Life, 
Paestum, 

Columbus — Land Discovered, 
A Wish, 



564 

565 
566 
567 
568 
570 



572 

674 
676 
677 
579 
581 
582 
583 



James Montgomery, 
Biographical Sketch, 
The Love of Country and of 

Home, 
Home Dear to the African, 
Night, 
The Grave, 

The Field is the World, 
The Common Lot, 
Aspirations of Youth, 
Prayer, 
Humility, 
The Poetical in Childhood and 

^ Old Age, 
Characteristics of Prose and Verse, 597 
The Permanence of Words, 599 



584 

686 
587 
688 
589 
592 
592 
593 
594 
595 

595 



William Lisle Bowles, 

Biographical Sketch, ' 601 

Winchester, account of (note), 601 

Sonnet at Ostend, 602 

Sonnet on the Rhine, 603 

Sonnet to Time, 603 

Sonnet to Summer, 603 
Sonnet — Winter EveningatHome, 604 

Sun-dial in a Churchyard, 604 

The Greenwich Pensioners, 605 



CONTENTS. 



XV 



Thomas Moore, 
Biographical Sketch, 606 

Paradise and the Peri, 609 

Believe Me, if all those endearing 

young Charms, 613 

I saw thy Form, 614 

When in the cold Earth, 614 

Those Evening Bells, 615 

Thou art, oh God, 615 

This World is all a fleeting Show, 616 
The Bird let Loose, 616 

Oh ! Thou who dry'st the Mourn- 
er's Tear, 617 
The Turf shall be my fragrant 

Shrine, 617 

Like Morning, when her early 

Breeze, 618 

Come, ye Disconsolate, 618 

John Wilson, 

Biographical Sketch, 619 

The Head-stone, 620 

A Sleeping Child, 623 

The Shipwreck, 624 

The Evening Cloud— a Sonnet, 626 

Amelia Opie, 
Biographical Sketch, 626 
The Orphan Boy's Tale, 627 
Song, 628 
Hymn, 629 
War, 629 
A Lament, 630 
Lies falsely called Lies of Bene- 
volence, 631 
A Tale of Potted Sprats, 631 

Henry Hart Milman, 

Biographical Sketch, 634 

Jerusalem before the Siege, 634 

Hymn of the Captive Jews, 635 

The Nativity, 636 

The Burial Anthem, 638 

Speech of Anne Boleyn, 638 

Thomas Babington Macaulay, 
Biographical Sketch, 639 

The Five chief Contributors to the 

Edinburgh Review (note), 642 
Milton, 640 

The Puritans, 646 

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 648 

Character of Byron, 650 

A Day in Ancient Athens, 653 

The Crowning of Petrarch, 654 

Books and Education in Charles 

Second's Reign, 655 



Mrs. Norton, 

Biographical Sketch, 657 

To the Duchess of Sutherland, 657 

The Mother's Heart, 659 

Woman's Fortitude, 660 

The Arab's Farewell to his Steed, 661 

The Blind Man's Bride, 662 

A Mother, 663 

Sonnet — To my Books, 664 

Sonnet — The Weaver, 664 

Common Blessings, 665 

The Prison Chaplain, 665 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 



Notice of. 


666 


The Pet-name, 


666 


The Lady's Yes, 


668 


Victoria's Tears, 


668 


The Sleep, 


670 


The Cry of the Human, 


671 


Richard Whately, 




Notice of. 


673 


Works (note), 


673 


True Foundation of Church En- 




actments, 


674 


A Primitive Bishop, 


676 


The Apostolic Succession, 


677 


The Pure Gospel finally to Tri- 




umph, 


680 


Friends Recognized in Heaven, 


681 


Eliza Cook, 




Notice of. 


682 


The World, 


683 


Cupid's Arrow, 


684 


Nature's Gentleman, 


684 


The Mourners, 


685 


The Loved one was not There, 


687 


Home in the Heart, 


688 


Harvest Song, 


688 


Samuel Warren, 




Notice of. 


689 


Death at the Toilet, 


690 


Martin F. Tupper, 




Biographical Notice, 


693 


Of Compensation, 


695 


Forgive and Forget, 


696 


Bygones, 


697 


Niagara — A Sonnet, 


698 


The Trial, 


698 


Mrs. Jameson, 




Notice of. 


705 


Portia, 


706 



XVI 



CONTENTS. 



William Howitt, 

Sketch of, 713 

William Cowper, 714 

The True Dignity of Labor, 716 

Mary Howitt, 

Sketch of, 720 

The Sale of the Pet Lamb, 721 

Mountain Children, * 722 

The Spider and the Fly, 723 

Father is Coming, 724 

The Lost One, 725 



Lord Brougham, 
Biographical Notice, 726 

The Duke of Wellington— The 

Schoolmaster, 730 

Man over Men he made not Lord, 731 
Happy effects of Education, 732 

Railroads versus War, 732 

True Glory and Honor, 734 

Aptitude of Youth for Knowledge, 735 
Prospects of the Age— Sneerers 

at Education, 736 

The Schoolmaster and the Con- 
queror, 737 



ENGLISH LITERATURE 



NINETEENTH CENTURY 



JOSEPH WARTON, 1722—1800. 

In entering upon the subject of English Literature of the present century, 
it is gratifying to begin with the name of one who, to the character of a 
pleasing poet, a profound scholar, a tasteful and judicious critic, and a suc- 
cessful and venerated school-master, unites that of a pure Christian, in so 
eminent a degree as Joseph Warton. He was the son of the Rev. Thomas 
Warton, Professor of Poetry in Oxford University, and was born at Duns- 
fold, in the county of Surrey, in April, 1722. He was educated by his 
father until he was fourteen, when he entered Winchester school ; and 
while there, so distinguished himself for his poetical talents, that he be- 
came a contributor to the poetry of the " Gentleman's Magazine."* In 
1740, he removed to Oxford University. How he spent his time there 
may be learned from the following interesting and eloquent portion of a 
letter to his father: — 

"To help me in some parts of my last collections from Longi- 
nus, I have read a good part of Dionysius Halicarnassus : so that 
I think by this time I ought fully to understand the structure of 
words and sentences. I shall read Longinus as long as I live ; it 
is impossible not to catch fire and raptures from his glowing style. 
The noble causes he gives at the conclusion for the decay of the 
sublime amongst men, to wit, the love of pleasure, riches, and 
idleness, would almost make one look down upon the world with 
contempt, and rejoice in, and wish for toils, poverty, and dangers 
to combat with.'' 

' His first contribution was in October, 1739, and may be found in vol. ix. 
p. 545. In the same month appeared, in this magazine, Akenside's "Hymn to 
Scien<ie ;" in the next page, a juvenile sonnet by Collins, signed " Delicatulus;" 
and in the next month, p. 599, is Mrs. Carter's beautiful " Ode to Melancholy." 
So much has this periodical done to usher the first productions of genius into 
the world ! 



18 WARTON. [GEORGE III. 

In 1744, he took his degree of A.B., was immediately ordained, and 
officiated as his father's curate in the church of Basingstoke, in Hampshire, 
till February, 1746. In this year, he published a small volume of " Odes 
on Various Subjects." They are seventeen in number, and, though deci- 
dedly inferior to those of Collins, published the same year, they are cha- 
racterized by a fine taste and fancy, and much ease of versification. The 
ode "To Fancy" is much superior to any of the rest. " It abounds," says 
Dr. Drake, "in a succession of strongly- contrasted and high-wrought 
imagery, clothed in a versification of the sweetest cadence and most bril- 
liant polish."' 

The year after the publication of this volume of odes, he obtained the 
rectory of Wynslade, and thereupon married a Miss Daman, to whom he 
had been long engaged. With her he enjoyed the highest domestic hap- 
piness, and devoted all his leisure hours to the translation of Virgil's 
Eclogues and Georgics, which were to be accompanied by Pitt's version 
of the ^neid, and the original Latin of the whole. In 1753, this elegant 
and valuable accession to classical literature was completed and published, 
accompanied by notes, dissertations, commentaries, and essays. This work 
was well received, and Warton's version of the Georgics and Eclogues was 
pronounced far superior to any that had preceded it. " To every classical 
reader, indeed," remarks Mr. Wooll, "Warton's Virgil will afford the 
richest fund of instruction and amusement ; and as a professional man I 
hesitate not to declare, that I scarcely know a work to the upper classes of 
schools so pregnant with the most valuable advantages; as it imparts 
information, without the encouragement of idleness, and crowns the exer- 
tions of necessary and laudable industry with the acquisition of a pure and 
unadulterated taste. "^ 

It was at this time that Dr. Johnson, in a letter dated March 8, 1753, 
applied to him, from Hawkesworth, to assist in the "Adventurer:" " Being 
desired," says he, "to look out for another hand, my thoughts necessarily 
fixed upon you, whose fund of literature will enable you to assist them, 
with very little interruption of your studies, &c. : the province of criticism 
and literature they are very desirous to assign to the commentator on 
Virgil."'' His first paper is No. 49, dated April 24, 1753, containing a 
" Parallel between Ancient and Modern Learning." His communications 
are among the very best of the whole work, and are written "with an 
extent of erudition, and a purity, elegance, and vigor of language, which 
demand very high praise."* 

In the year 1755, Warton was chosen second master of Winchester 

* Read a well-written biographical sketch of Warton, in Drake's Essays, 
vol.iv. p. 112; and another in Sir Egerton Brydges' " Censura Literaria," 
vol. iv. p. 340, of the 2d edition. 

2 WooU's " Memoirs of Warton," p. 28. 

^ See the whole letter in Croker's Boswell, 1 vol. 8vo. new ed. p. 81. 

* Sir Egerton Brydges. Of the 140 numbers of the " Adventurer," Hawkes- 
worth* wrote 73, Johnson 29, Warton 24, Bathurst 7, Mrs. Chapone 3, Cole- 
man 1, and 3 are anonymous. 

* For an account of Hawkesworth, see '• Compendium of English Literature," 
p. 609. 



1760-1820.] WARTON. 19 

school, for which high office he was peculiarly qualified by his talents and 
character, as he united to his great learning a peculiar aptness to impart 
instruction, and the rare art of exciting in his scholars an enthusiasm for 
literature, and a love and respect for himself. The next year he published 
the first volume of his "Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope," 
which must ever be ranked as one of the most elegant and interesting pro- 
ductions in the department of criticism. "It abounds," says Dr. Drake, 
" with literary anecdote and collateral disquisition, is written in a style of 
great ease and purity, and exhibits a taste refined, chaste, and classical. In 
short, it is a work which, however often perused, affords fresh delight, and 
may be considered as one of the books best adapted to excite a love of 
literature." 

In 1766, he succeeded to the head- mastership of Winchester school, 
which he held till 1793, when, being seventy-one years old, he resigned 
this position, and retired to the Rectory of Wickham, in Hants. " That 
ardent mind," says Mr. Wooll in his " Memoirs," " which had so eminently 
distinguished the exercise of his public duties, did not desert him in the 
hours of leisure and retirement ; for inactivity was foreign to his nature. 
His parsonage, his farm, his garden, were cultivated and adorned with the 
eagerness and taste of undiminished youth. His lively sallies of playful 
wit, his rich stores of literary anecdote, and the polished and habitual ease 
with which he imperceptibly entered into the various ideas and pursuits of 
men, rendered him an acquaintance both profitable and amusing ; whilst 
his unaffected piety and unbounded charity stamped him a pastor adored 
by his parishioners. Difficult indeed would it be to decide whether he 
shone in a degree legs, in this social character, than in the closet of criticism 
or the chair of instruction." 

He did not, however, sink into literary idleness. In 1797, he edited the 
works of Pope, in nine vols, octavo. The notes to this edition, which neces- 
sarily include the greatest part of his celebrated " Essay," are highly enter- 
taining and instructive.' He, however, was censured for introducing some 
pieces of Pope's, which Warburton had very properly omitted. But he was 
not deterred by the blame he thus suffered from entering upon an edition 
of Dryden, which, alas ! he did not live to finish, though he left two volumes 
ready for the press. He died February 23, 1800, leaving behind him a 
widow, one son, (the Rev. John Warton,) and three daughters. Such is 
a brief outline of the life of this most excellent man; — one of the ripest 
scholars and soundest critics England has produced. 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 

O Goddess, on whose steps attend 
Pleasure, and laughter-loving health, 
White mantled Peace with olive-wand, 
Young Joy, and diamond-scepter'd Wealth, 

'■ Roscoe has incorporated most of Warton's notes in his — now the best- 
edition of Pope, 8 vols. 8vo. 



20 WARTON. [GEORGE III. 

Blithe Plenty, with her loaded horn, 
With Science bright-eyed as the morn ; 
In Britain, which for ages past 
Has been thy choicest darling care. 
Who madest her wise, and strong, and fair, 
May thy best blessings ever last! 

For thee, the pining prisoner mourns. 

Deprived of food, of mirth, of light; 

For thee pale slaves to galleys chain'd, 

That ply tough oars from morn to night; 

Thee the proud Sultan's beauteous train, 11 

By eunuchs guarded, weep in vain, 11 

Tearing the roses from their locks ; 

And Guinea's captive kings lament, 

By Christian lords to labor sent, 

Whipt like the dull, unfeeling ox. 

Inspired by thee, deaf to fond Nature's cries, 

Stern Brutus, when Rome's genius loudly spoke, 

Gave her the matchless filial sacrifice, 

Nor turn'd, nor trembled at the deathful stroke! 

And he of later age, but equal fame, 

Dared stab the tyrant, though he loved the friend. 

How burnt the Spartan* with warm patriot flame, 

In thy great cause his valorous life to end ! 

How burst Gustavus from the Swedish mine! 

Like light from chaos dark, eternally to shine. 

When Heaven to all thy joys bestows, 

And graves upon our hearts — be free — 

Shall coward man those joys resign, 

And dare reverse this great decree? 

Submit him to some idol-king, 

Some selfish, passion-guided thing. 

Abhorring man, by man abhorr'd. 

Around whose throne stands trembling doubt, 

Whose jealous eyes still roll about, 

And murder with his reeking sword ? 

Where trampling Tyranny with Fate 
And black Revenge gigantic goes, 
Hark, how the dying infants shriek! 
How hopeless age is sunk in woes! 
Fly, mortals, from that fated land. 
Though birds in shades of cassia sing, 
Harvests and fruits spontaneous rise, 
No storms disturb the smiling skies, 
And each soft breeze rich odors bring. 

Britannia, watch! — remember peerless Rome, 
Her high-tower'd head dash'd meanly to the ground; 
Remember, Freedom's guardian, Grecia's doom, 
Whom, weeping, the despotic Turk has bound • 

* Leonidas. 



1760-1820.] WARTON. 21 

May ne'er thy oak-crown'd hills, rich meads, and downs, 

(Fame, Virtue, Courage, Poverty, forgot,) 

Thy peaceful villages, and busy towns, 

Be doom'd some death-dispensing tyrants lot; 

On deep foundations may thy freedom stand, 

Lonu as the surge shall lash thy sea-encircled land. 



ODE TO CONTENT. 

Welcome Content! from roofs of fretted gold, 
From Persian sofas, and the gems of Ind, 
From courts, and camps, and crowds, 
Fled to my cottage mean. 
Meek Virgin, wilt thou deign with me to sit 
In pensive pleasure by my glimmering fire, 
And with calm smile despise 
The loud world's distant din? 
As from the piny mountain's topmost cliff _ 
Some wandering hermit sage hears unconcern d. 
Far in the vale below. 
The thundering torrent burst! 
Teach me, good Heaven, the gilded chains of vice 
To break; to study independent ease; 
Pride, pomp, and power to shun — 
Those fatal Syrens fair, 
That, robed Uke Eastern queens, sit on high thrones, 
And, beckoning every thirsty traveller. 
Their baleful cups present 
With pleasing poisons fraught. 
O let me dwell in life's low valley, blest 
With the dear Nymph I love, true, hearttelt joy, 
With chosen friends to turn 
The polish'd Attic page ; 
Nor seldom, if nor Fortune damp my wings, 
Nor dire Disease, to soar to Piadus lull. 
My hours, my soul devote 
To Poesy and Love ! 



POETS NOT NECESSARILY NOR UNIVERSALLY POOR. 

Tl>e neglect of economy, in which great geniuses are supposed 

to have indulged themselves, has unfortunately given so much 

luthoritv Ind justification to carelessness and extravagance that 

manTa minute 'rhymer has fallen into dissipation and drunkenness, 

J 3* 



22 AVARTON. [GEORGE III. 

because Butler and Otway lived and died in an alehouse. As a i 
certain blockhead wore his gown on one shoulder to mimic the 
negligence of Sir Thomas More, so these servile imitators follow 
their masters in all that disgraced them; contract immoderate 
debts, because Dryden died insolvent; and neglect to change their 
linen, because Smith was a sloven. "If I should happen to look 
pale," says Horace, "all the hackney-writers in Rome would imme- 
diately drink cumin to gain the same complexion." And I my- 
self am acquainted with a witling who uses a glass only because 
Pope was near-sighted. 

I can easily conceive that a mind occupied and overwhelmed m\ 
with the weight and immensity of its own conceptions, glancing || 
with astonishing rapidity from heaven to earth, and from earth to 
heaven, cannot willingly submit to the dull drudgery of examining 
the justness and accuracy of a butcher's bill. To descend from 
the widest and most comprehensive views of nature, and weigh out 
hops for a brewing, must be invincibly disgusting to a true genius : 
to be able to build imaginary palaces of the most exquisite archi- 
tecture, but yet not to pay a carpenter's bill, is a cutting mortifi- 
cation and disgrace: to be ruined by pursuing the precepts of 
Virgilian agriculture, and by ploughing classically, without attend- 
ing to the wholesome monitions of low British farmers, is a circum- 
stance that aggravates the failure of a crop to a man who wishes 
to have lived in the Augustan age, and despises the system of 
modern husbandry. 

Many poets, however, may be found, who have condescended to 
the cares of economy, and who have conducted their families with 
all the parsimony and regularity of an alderman of the last cen- 
tury; who have not superciliously disdained to enter into the 
concerns of common life, and to subscribe to and study certain 
necessary dogmas of the vulgar, convinced of their utility and 
expediency, and well knowing that because they are vulgar, they 
are, therefore, both important and true. 

If we look backwards on antiquity, or survey ages nearer our 
own, we shall find several of the greatest geniuses so far from being 
sunk in indigence, that many of them enjoyed splendor and 
honors, or at least were secured against the anxieties of poverty 
by a decent competence and plenty of the conveniences of life. 

Indeed, to pursue riches farther than to attain a decent compe- 
tence is too low and illiberal an occupation for a real genius to 
descend to; and Horace wisely ascribes the manifest inferiority of 
the Roman literature to the Grecian, to an immoderate love of 
money, which necessarily contracts and rusts the mind, and dis- 
qualifies it for noble and generous undertakings. 



9 

1760-1820.] WARTON. 23 

^schylus was an officer of no small rank in tlie Athenian army 
at the celebrated battle of Marathon; and Sophocles was an ac- 
complished general, who commanded his countrymen in several 
most important expeditions : Theocritus was caressed and enriched 
by Ptolemy; and the gaiety of Anacreon was the result of ease 
and plenty : Pindar was better rewarded for many of his odes than 
any other bard, ancient or modern, except perhaps Boileau for his 
celebrated piece of flattery on the taking of Namur : Yirgil at last 
possessed a fine house at Rome, and a villa at Naples : "Horace,^' 
says Swift, in one of his lectures on economy to Gay, "I am sure 
kept his coach :" Lucan and Silius Italicus dwelt in marble palaces, 
and had their gardens adorned with the most exquisite capital 
statues of Greece : Milton was fond of a domestic life, and lived 
with exemplary frugality and order : Corneille and Racine were 
both admirable masters of their families, faithful husbands, and 
prudent economists: Boileau, by the liberalities of Louis, was 
enabled to purchase a delightful privacy at Auteuil, was eminently 
skilled in the management of his finances, and despised that affect- 
ation which arrogantly aims to place itself above the necessary 
decorums and rules of civil life; in all which particulars they were 
equalled by Addison, Swift, and Pope. 

It ought not, therefore, to be concluded, from a few examples to 
the contrary, that poetry and prudence are incompatible ; a con- 
clusion that seems to have arisen, in this kingdom, from the disso- 
lute behavior of the despicable debauchees that disgraced the 
muses, and the court of Charles the Second, by their lives and by 
their writings. Let those who are blest with genius recollect that 
economy is the parent of integrity, of liberty, and of ease; and 
the beauteous sister of temperance, of cheerfulness, and health : 
and that profuseness is a cruel and crafty demon, that gradually 
involves her followers in dependence and debts; that is, fetters 
them with "irons that enter into their souls." 

Adventurer, No. 107. 



POPE AS A POET. 

Thus have I endeavored to give a critical account, with free- 
dom, but it is hoped with impartiality, of each of Pope's works; 
by which review it will appear, that the largest portion of them 
is of the didactic, moral, and satiric kind; and consequently, not 
of the most poetic species of poetry ; whence it is manifest, that 
good sense and judgment were his characteristical excellencies, 
rather than fancy and invention ; not that the author of the Brtpe 



24 WARTON. [GEORGE III. 

of the Loch, and EJoisa, can be thought to want imagination, but 
because his imagination was not his predominant talent, because 
he indulged it not, and because he gave not so many proofs of this 
talent as of the other. This turn of mind led him to admire 
French models; he studied Boileau attentively; formed himself 
upon him, as Milton formed himself upon the Grecian and Italian 
sons of Fancy. He stuck to describing modern manners; but 
those manners, because they are familiar, uniform, artificial, and 
polished, are, in their very nature, unfit for any lofty effort of the 
Muse. He gradually became one of the most correct, even, and 
exact poets that ever wrote; polishing his pieces with a care and 
assiduity that no business or avocation ever interrupted : so that, 
if he does not frequently ravish and transport his reader, yet he 
does not disgust him with unexpected inequalities, and absurd 
improprieties. Whatever poetical enthusiasm he actually possessed, 
he withheld and stifled. The perusal of him affects not our minds 
with such strong emotions as we feel from Homer and Milton, so 
that no man of a true poetical spirit is master of himself while 
he reads them. Hence, he is a writer fit for universal perusal; 
adapted to all ages and stations; for the old and for the young; 
the man of business and the scholar. He who would think the 
Faery Queen, Palamon2iii^Arcite,{\iQ Tempest, ov 6'o??iz<s, childish 
and romantic, might relish Pope. Surely it is no narrow and 
niggardly encomium to say he is the great Poet of Reason, the 
First of Ethical authors in verse. And this species of writing is, 
after all, the surest road to an extensive reputation. It lies more 
level to the general capacities of men than the higher flights of 
more genuine poetry. We all remember when even a Churchill 
was more in vogue than a Gray. He that treats of fashionable 
follies, and the topics of the day, that describes present persons 
and recent events, finds many readers, whose understandings and 
whose passions he gratifies. The name of C hesterjielcl on one 
hand, and of ]Yalpr>le on the other, failed not to make a poem 
bought up and talked of. And it cannot be doubted, that the 
Odes of Horace which celebrated, and the satires which ridiculed, 
well-known and real characters at Home, were more eagerly read 
and more frequently cited than the ^neid and the Georgics of 
Virgil. 

Where, then, according to the question proposed at the beginning 
of this Essay, shall we with justice be authorized to place our 
admired Pope? Not, assuredly, in the same rank with Sj^enser, 
jShakspeare, and 31ilton ; however justly we may applaud the 
Eloisa and Rape of the Loch. But, considering the correctness, 
elegance, and utility of his works, the weight of sentiment, and 



1760-1820.] CHAPONE. 25 

the knowledge of man they contain, we may venture to assign him 
a place next to Milton , and just above Dry den. Yet, to bring 
our minds steadily to make this decision, we must forget, for a 
moment, the divine Music Ode of Dry den; and may perhaps then 
be compelled to confess that, though Dryden be the greater genius, 
yet Po][)e is the better artist. 

The preference here given to Pope above other modern English 
poets, it must be remembered, is founded on the excellencies of 
his works in general^ and talzen all together ; for there are j:)arfe 
tmdi passages in other modern authors — in Young and in Thomson , 
for instance — equal to any of Pope ; and he has written nothing in 
a strain so truly sublime as the Bard of Gray. 



HESTER CHAPONE, 1727-1801. 

Mks. Chapone was descended from the ancient family of Mulso, of 
Twywell, in Northamptonshire. Hester, the subject of this memoir, was 
the daughter of Thomas Mulso, and was born October 27, 1727. She 
lost her mother when quite young, and her early education was somewhat 
neglected; for which, however, she afterwards made amends by her own 
exertions. Though not handsome, she was full of sensibility and energy ; 
of quick apprehension and attractive manners, lifter the death of her 
mother, she not only undertook the management of her father's house, 
but devoted a great portion of her time to self-improvement ; made herself 
mistress of the French and Italian languages, and acquired some knowledge 
of the classic tongues. She discovered, also, strong powers of discrimi- 
nation and judgment; and while her fancy and warm feelings made her 
delight in poetry, her sound sense gave her a love of philosophy. 

Her enthusiastic love of genius made her a warm admirer of Richardson, 
the novelist, to whom, however, she could not surrender her opinions. 
With him she entered into an able correspondence on the subject of 
filial obedience; and her letters, though written at the age of twenty- 
two, display much ability, and strength and clearness of mind. It was at 
his house that she met Mr. Chapone, a young practitioner of law. A mu- 
tual attachment was the result, though from his limited means many years 
elapsed before they were united in marriage. In the mean time, she lived 
either with her father or with her friends and relations, while her society 
was widely sought and her accomplishments were generally acknowledged. 
At the house of her aunt, Mrs. Donne, of Canterbury, she became ac- 
quainted with the celebrated Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, and at Mr. Richardson's 
she met Dr. Johnson. In one of her letters to Mrs. Carter, dated July 



26 CHAPONE. [GEORGE III. 

10, 1752, she thus records a meeting with him, and the result of an argument 
maintained by her against him: — 

*^We had a visit whilst at Northend from your friend Mr. 
Johnson, and poor Mrs. Williams.* I was charmed with his be- 
havior to her, which was like that of a fond father to his daughter. 
She seemed much pleased with her visit ; showed very good sense, 
with a great deal of modesty and humility; and so much patience 
and cheerfulness under her misfortune, that it doubled my concern 
for her. Mr. Johnson was very communicative and entertaining, 
and did me the honor to address most of his discourse to me. I 
had the assurance to dispute with him on the subject of human 
malignity, and wondered to hear a man who by his actions shows 
so much benevolence, maintain that the human heart is naturally 
malevolent, and that all the benevolence we see in the few who 
are good is acquired by reason and religion. You may believe I 
entirely disagreed with him, being, as you know, fully persuaded 
that benevolence, or the love of our fellow-creatures, is as much 
a part of our nature as self-love; and that it cannot be suppressed, 
or extinguished, without great violence from the force of other 
passions. I told him I suspected him of these bad notions from 
some of his Ramblers, and had accused him to you; but that you 
persuaded me I had mistaken his sense. To which he answered, 
that, if he had betrayed such sentiments in the Ramblers, it was 
not with design; for that he believed the doctrine of human ma- 
levolence, though a true one, is not an useful one, and ought not 
to be published to the world. Is there any truth that would not 
be useful, or that should not be known ?"^ 

In 1753, Miss Mulso sent the story of "Fidelia" to the "Adventurer," 
which forms Nos. 77, 78, and 79 of that work ; and on the publication of 
Mrs. Carter's Epictetus, in 1758, an ode by Miss Mulso was prefixed. These, 
together with an ode to Peace, were among her earliest productions which 
she thought worthy of the press. Towards the close of the year 17G0, she 
was united to the man of her choice, with every prospect of long-continued 
happiness ; but, alas, this union was of short duration ! Within ten months, 
Mr. Chapone was seized with a violent fever, which terminated fatally 
in September 1761. The severity of this blow was so keenly felt by her, 
that her life was for some time in danger ; but at length the assiduity of her 
friends and the consolations of religion had their due weight, and she gra- 
dually recovered her spirits and her peace of mind. 

In 1773, Mrs. Chapone published her " Letters on the Improvement of 

^ For an account of Mrs. Anna Williams, see Boswell's Johnson, Croker's 
ed. 1 vol. 8vo. p. 74. 
3 Chapone's Works, vol. i. pp. 72, 73, 74. 



1760-1820.] CHAPONE. 27 

the Mind," addressed to her favorite niece, the eldest daughter of the 
Rev. John Mulso. The work was most favorably received, and soon 
became extensively circulated. It is, indeed, " one of the best books that 
can be put into the hands of female youth ; the style is easy and pure, the 
advice practical and sound, and the whole uniformly tends to promote the 
purest principles of morality and religion." In 1775, she published her 
"Miscellanies in Prose and Verse," in one volume. Of the poems of this 
volume, which were, for the most part, the productions of her early life, 
the best is the " Ode to Solitude." This was the last work she published. 
From this time she was called almost every year to mourn the loss of 
some near and dear friend. Towards the close of the century her faculties 
began to decay, and she died at Hadley, on the 25th of December, 1801. 



ODE TO SOLITUDE. ^ 

Thou gentle nurse of pleasing woe. 

To thee from crowds, and noise, and show, 

With eager haste I fly ; 
Thrice welcome, friendly Solitude, 
O let no busy foot intrude, 

Nor listening ear be nigh ! 

Soft, silent, melancholy maid, 

With thee, to yon sequester'd shade, 

My pensive steps I bend; 
Still at the mild approach of night, 
When Cynthia lends her sober light, 

Do thou my walk attend ! 

To thee alone ray conscious heart 
Its tender sorrow dares impart, 

And ease my lab'ring breast; 
To thee I trust the rising sigh, 
And bid the tear that swells my eye 

No longer be supprest. 

With thee among the haunted groves, 
The lovely sorc'ress Fancy roves ; 

O let me find her here ! 
For she can time and space control, 
And swift transport my fleeting soul 

To all it holds most dear. 

Ah! no — ye vain delusions, hence! 
No more the hallow'd innocence 

Of Solitude pervert! 
Shall Fancy cheat the precious hour, 
Sacred to Wisdom's awful power 

And calm Reflection's part"? 



I 



28 CHAPONE. [GEORGE III. 

O Wisdom ! from the sea-beat shore, 
Where, listening to the solemn roar, 

Thy lov'd Eliza' strays, 
Vouchsafe to visit my retreat, 
And teach my erring, trembling feet 

Thy heaven-protected ways! 

O guide me to the humble cell 
Where Resignation loves to dwell. 

Contentment's bower in view ! 
Nor pining grief, with absence drear, 
Nor sick suspense, nor anxious fear, 

Shall there my steps pursue. 

There, let my soul to Him aspire, 
W^hom none e'er sought with vain desire, 

Nor lov'd in sad despair ; 
There, to his gracious will divine. 
My dearest, fondest hope resign, 

And all my tenderest care. 

Then peace shall heal this wounded breast, 
That pants to see another blest, 

From selfish passion pure; 
Peace which, when human wishes rise, 
Intense, for aught beneath the skies. 

Can never be secure. 



ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER. 

The next great point of importance to your future happiness 
is what your parents have, doubtless, been continually attentive to 
from your infancy, as it is impossible to undertake it too early — 
I mean the due Regulation of your Temper. Though you are in 
great measure indebted to their forming hands for whatever is 
good in it, you are sensible, no doubt, as every human creature is, 
of propensities to some infirmity of temper, which it must now be 
your own care to correct and to subdue : otherwise, the pains that 
have hitherto been taken with you may all become fruitless ; and, 
when you are your own mistress, you may relapse into those faults 
which were originally in your nature, and which will require to 
be diligently watched and kept under, through the whole course 
of your life. 

If you consider that the constant tenor of the gospel precepts 
is to promote love, peace, and good-will amongst men, you will not 
doubt that the cultivation of an amiable disposition is a great part 

» Eliza Carter. 



1760-1820.] CHAPONE. 29 

of your religious duty; since nothing leads more directly to the 
breach of charity, and to the injury and molestation of our fellow- 
creatures, than the indulgence of an ill-temper. Do not, therefore, 
think lightly of the offences you may commit, for want of a due 
command over it, or suppose yourself responsible for them to your 
fellow-creatures only; but, be assured, you must give a strict 
account of them all to the Supreme Governor of the world, who 
has made this a great part of your appointed trial upon earth. 

A woman, bred up in a religious manner, placed above the reach 
of want, and out of the way of sordid or scandalous vices, can 
have but few temptations to the flagrant breach of the divine laws. 
It particularly concerns her, therefore, to understand them in their 
full import, and to consider how far she trespasses against them, 
by such actions as appear trivial when compared with murder, 
adultery, and theft, but which become of very great importance, 
by being frequently repeated, and occurring in the daily transac- 
tions of life. 

The principal virtues or vices of a woman must be of a private 
and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own family and 
dependents lies her sphere of action — the scene of almost all those 
tasks and trials which must determine her character and her fate 
here and hereafter. Reflect, for a moment, how much the happi- 
ness of her husband, children, and servants, must depend on her 
temper, and you will see that the greatest good, or evil, which she 
ever may have in her power to do, may arise from her correcting 
or indulging its infirmities. 

Though I wish the principle of duty towards God to be your 
ruling motive in the exercise of every virtue, yet, as human nature 
stands in need of all possible helps, let us not forget how essential 
it is to present happiness, and to the enjoyment of this life, to 
cultivate such a temper as is likewise indispensably requisite to the 
attainment of higher felicity in the life to come. The greatest 
outward blessings cannot afford enjoyment to a mind rufiled and 
uneasy within itself. A fit of ill-humor will spoil the finest 
entertainment, and is as real a torment as the most painful disease. 
Another unavoidable consequence of ill-temper is the dislike and 
aversion of all who are witnesses to it, and, perhaps, the deep and 
lasting resentment of those who suffer from its effects. We all, 
from social or self-love, earnestly desire the esteem and affection 
of our fellow-creatures; and indeed our condition makes them so 
necessary to us that the wretch who has forfeited them must feel 
desolate and undone, deprived of all the best enjoyments and com- 
forts the world can afford, and given up to his inward misery, 
unpitied and scorned. But this can never be the fate of a good- 
4 



30 CHAPONE. [GEORGE III. 

Matured person : whatever faults he may have, they will generally 
be treated with lenity; he will find an advocate in every human 
heart; his errors will be lamented rather than abhorred; and his 
virtues will be viewed in the fairest point of light. His good- 
humor, without the help of great talents or acquirements, will 
make his company preferable to that of the most brilliant genius, 
in whom this quality is wanting; in short, it is almost impossible 
that you can be sincerely beloved by anybody, without this engag- 
ing property, whatever other excellencies you may possess; but, 
with it, you will scarcely fail of finding some friends and favorers, 
even though you should be destitute of almost every other ad- 
vantage. 

Perhaps you will say, ^^all this is very true; but our tempers 
are not in our own power — we are made with difierent dispositions, 
and, if mine is not amiable, it is rather my unhappiuess than my 
fault." This is commonly said by those who will not take the 
trouble to correct themselves. Yet, be assured, it is a delusion, 
and will not avail in our justification before Him "who knoweth 
whereof we are made," and of what we are capable. It is true, 
we are not all equally happy in our dispositions; but human vir- 
tue consists in cherishing and cultivating every good inclination, 
and in checking and subduing every propensity to evil. If you 
had been born with a bad temper, it might have been made a good 
one, at least with regard to its outward effects, by education, reason, 
and principle : and, though you are so happy as to have a good 
one while young, do not suppose it will always continue so, if you 
neglect to maintain a proper command over it. Power, sickness, 
disappointments, or worldly cares, may corrupt and embitter the 
finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reason and 
religion. 

It is observed, that every temper is inclined, in some degree, 
either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so unfor- 
tunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn : it is necessary 
therefore to watch the bent of our nature, and to apply the reme« 
dies proper for the infirmity to which we are most liable. With 
regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, and so odious in 
itself, especially in the female character, that one would think 
shame alone would be sufficient to preserve a young woman from 
giving way to it : for it is as unbecoming her character to be be- 
trayed into ill-behavior by passion, as by intoxication, and she 
ought to be ashamed of the one as much as of the other. Gentle- 
ness, meekness, and patience are her peculiar distinctions, and an 
enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights in nature. 



\ 



1760-1820.] MONTAGU. 31 



ELIZABETH MONTAGU, 1720—1800. 

Elizabeth Robinson, daughter of Matthew Robinson, Esq., was born 
at York, on the 2d of October, 1720. When she was about seven years 
old, her parents removed to Cambridge, where she derived great advantage 
in the progress of her education from Dr. Conyers Middleton,^ whom her 
grandmother had married as her second husband. Her uncommon sensi- 
bility and acuteness of understanding, as well as her extraordinary beauty 
as a child, rendered her an object of great notice and admiration in the 
society at Cambridge, and Dr. Middleton was in the habit of requiring from 
her an account of the learned conversations at which in his society she was 
frequently present; saying that, though she might but imperfectly under- 
stand them then, she would in future derive great benefit from the habit 
of attention inculcated by this practice. 

In 1742, she was married to Edward Montagu, Esq., member of Parhament 
for Huntingdon, In three years, however, he died, leaving her the whole 
of his estate (for she had no children), and thus she was enabled to gratify 
her taste for study and literary society to the fullest extent. In 1769, she 
published her " Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakspeare, compared 
with the Greek and French Dramatic Poets; with some Remarks upon the 
Misrepresentations of Voltaire." This work soon passed through many 
editions, and gave her a high rank in the literary world. The praise which 
Cowper and Warton have bestowed upon it is decisive as to its merits. 
"The learning," says Cowper, "the good sense, the sound judgment, and 
the wit displayed in it, fully justify not only my compliment, but all compli- 
ments that either have been already paid to her talents, or shall be paid here- 
after." Soon after the publication of this essay, she opened her house, Port- 
man-square, in London, to the "Blue Stocking Club,"^ and was intimate 
with the most eminent literary men of her day. In private life she was an 
example of liberality and benevolence. It was at her house that an annual 
entertainment was given, on May-day, to all the climbing-boys and chim- 
neysweepers' apprentices in the metropolis. She died August '?5, 1800. 

The works of Mrs. Montagu consist of the Essay on Shakspeare, before 
mentioned, and four volumes of epistolary correspondence held with most 
of the eminent literary men of the day. These letters do great credit both 
to her head and heart: they are written in an easy and perspicuous style; 
are filled with judicious and pertinent reflections upon the passing events 
and the great men of the times; and, with her Essay on Shakspeare, give 
her no mean rank among English authors. If not a profound critic, she 
was certainly an acute and ingenious one, possessing judgment and taste 

- See his life in " Compendium of English Literature," p. 489. 

a So called from the "blue stockings" worn by a Mr. Stillingfleet, a member 
of this literary club. Such were the charms of his conversation, that when 
he was ab,sent, it used to be said, " We can do nothing without the bhce stoc/:- 
i?igs,^' and thus by degrees the name was given to the society. See Croker's 
Boswell's Johnson, vol. viii. pp. 85 and 86. 



32 MONTAGU. [GEORGE III. 

as well as learning ; and if not of such versatile talents as her namesake, 
Lady Mary Wortley,^ she is an example of moral purity both in her writings 
and character.2 



THE "WORLD SEEN IN ITS TRUE LIGHT. 



I 

nto 1 



To tlie Rev. W. Freind.^ 

Sir — I had the pleasure of your letter on Saturday, and I was 
glad to see the evening of a day spent in diversion improve into 
friendship. The various pleasures the general world can give us 
are nothing in comparison of the collected comforts of friendship. 
The first play round the head, but come not to the heart; the last 
are intensely felt; however, both these kinds of pleasures are ne- 
cessary to our satisfaction. If we would be more merry than wise, 
we maybe in^rudent; but to increase the critical knowledge that 
increases sorrow is not the desire or boast, but the misfortune and 
complaint, of the truly wise. It is really a misfortune to be above 
the bagatelle; a scorn of trifles may make us despise gray heads, 
mitred heads, nay, perhaps, crowned heads; it may teach us to 
take a little man from his great estate; a lord mayor from his great 
coach; a judge out of his long wig; a chief justice from his chair; 
it may even penetrate a crowd of courtiers till we reach the very 
heart of the prime minister. It is best to admire, and not to 
understand the world. Like a riddle, by its mystery rather than 
by its meaning, it affords a great deal of amusement till under- 
stood, and then but a very poor and scanty satisfaction. To the 
farmer every ear of wheat is bre?d; the thresher, by dint of labor, 
finds out it is half chaff; the miller, a man of still nicer inquiry, 
discovers that not a quarter of it will bear the sifting ; the baker 
knows it is liable to a thousand accidents before it can be made 
into bread. Thus it is in the great harvest of life; reckon that 
lofty stem on which greatness grows, and all that envelop it, as 
a part of the golden grain, and it makes a good figure; and thus 
sees the common eye. The nicer inquirer discerns how much of 
the fair appearance wants intrinsic value, and that when it is sifted 
there remains but little of real worth, and even that little is with 
difficulty moulded to good use. Do not let you and I encourage 

' See "Compendium of English Literature," p. 532. 

2 See an article on 'Mrs. Montagu's Letters, in the "Edinburgh Review," 
vol. XV. p. 75, and in the " Quarterly," vol. x. p. 15; also, some selected 
letters in Sir Egerton Brydges, " Censura Literaria," vol. ix. p. 48. 

3 Afterwards Dean of Canterbury, son of Dr. Robert Freind, head-master 
of Westminster School. 



1760-1820.] MONTAGU. 33 

this sharpness of sight; let the vision come to us through the 
grossest medium, and every little object borrow bulk and color: 
let all be magnified, multiplied, varied, and beautified by opinion, 
and the mistaken eye of prejudice: thus will the world appear a 
gay scene : as indulgent spectators we will call every trick a scheme, 
and every little wish ambition. 



A VIEW OF LIFE. 

To the Duchess of Portland. 

Madam — As your grace tenders my peace of mind, you will 
be glad to hear I am not so angry as I was. I own I was much 
moved in spirit at hearing you neglected your health, but since 
you have had advice, there is one safe step taken. As for me, I 
have swallowed the weight of an apothecary in medicine, and what 
I am the better, except more patient and less credulous, I know 
not. I have learnt to bear my infirmities,, and not to trust to the 
skill of physicians for curing them. I endeavor to drink deep 
of philosophy, and be wise when I cannot be merry, easy when I 
cannot be glad, content with what cannot be mended, and patient 
where there is no redress. The mighty can do no more, and the 
wise seldom do as much. You see I am in the main content with 
myself, though many would quarrel with such an insignificant, idle, 
inconsistent person; but I am resolved to make the best of all 
circumstances around me, that this short life may not be half lost 
in pains, "well remembering and applying, the necessity of dying." 
Between the periods of birth and burial I would fain insert a little 
happiness, a little pleasure, a little peace : to-day is ours, yesterday 
is past, and to-morrow may never come. I wonder people can so 
much forget death, when all we see before us is but succession; 
minute succeeds to minute, season to season, summer dies as winter 
comes. The dial marks the change of hour, every night brings 
death-like sleep, and morning seems a resurrection; yet while all 
changes and decays, we expect no alteration ; unapt to live, unready 
to die, we lose the present and seek the future, ask much for what 
we have not, thank Providence but little for what we have; our 
youth has no joy, our middle age no quiet, our old age no ease, 
no indulgence; ceremony is the tyrant of this day, fashion of the 
other, business of the next: little is allowed to freedom, happi- 
ness, and contemplation, the adoration of our Creator, the admi- 
ration of his works, and the inspection of ourselves. But why 
should I trouble your grace with these reflections? What my 

4* 



34 MONTAGU. [GEORGE III. 

little knowledge can suggest you must know better : what my short 
experience has shown, you must have better observed. I am sure 
anything is more acceptable to you than news and compliments; 
so I always give your grace the present thoughts of my heart. 



CHARACTER OF THE MISER. 

Hatton, Jpril 20, 1741. 
To Mrs. Donnellan. 

Dear madam — I had the pleasure of your letter yesterday; 
it made me very happy. If my friends at a distance did not keep 
my affections awake, I should be lulled into a state of insensibility, 
divided as I am from all I love. Not a countenance I delight in to 
joy me, nor any conversation I like to entertain me, I am left 
wholly to myself and my books, and both, I own, too little to 
possess me entirely. What's Cicero to me, or. I to Cicero ? as 
Hamlet would say; and for myself, though this same little insig- 
nificant self be very dear unto me, yet I have not used to make it 
my sole object of love and delight. Indeed I find my understand- 
ing so poor, it cannot live without borrowing. I mistrust my 
opinion, doubt my judgment, but have no one to set me right in 
them. I want just such a companion as you would be, and how 
happy would your kind compliance with that wish make me, if 
the good old folks here could accommodate you; but they are so 
fearful of strangers I know it impossible to persuade them to it. 
They are not very fine people ; they have a small estate, and help 
it out with a little farming; are very busy and careful, and the 
old man's cautiousness has dwindled into penuriousness, so that 
he eats in fear of waste and riot, sleeps with the dread of thieves, 
denies himself everything, for fear of wanting anything. Riches 
give him no plenty, increase no joy, prosperity no ease; he has the 
curse of covetousness — to want the property of his neighbors while 
he dare not touch his own; the harpy Avarice drives him from his 
own meat ; the sum of his wisdom and his gains will be by living 
poor to die rich. To want what one has not, is a necessity must 
be submitted to ; but to want what one has, is strange policy. I 
would fain write the history of a miser upon his monument, as : 
" Here lies one who lived unloved, died unlamented, denied plenty 
to himself, assistance to his friends, and relief to the poor ; starved 
his family, oppressed his neighbors, plagued himself to gain what 
he could not enjoy; at last, Death, more merciful to him than he 
to himself, released him from care, and his family from want; and 
here he lies with the muckworm he imitated, and the dirt he loved, 



1760-1820.] MONTAGU. 35 

in fear of a resurrection, lest his lieirs should have spent the money 
he left behind, having laid up no ^ treasure where moth and rust 
do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.^ " 



SHAKSPEARE AND HIS TIMES. 

Shakspeare wrote at a time when learning was tinctured with 
pedantry, wit was unpolished, and mirth ill-bred. The court of 
Elizabeth spoke a scientific jargon, and a certain obscurity of style 
was universally affected. James brought an addition of pedantry, 
accompanied by indecent and indelicate manners and language. 
By contagion, or from complaisance to the taste of the public, 
Shakspeare falls sometimes into the fashionable mode of writing : 
but this is only by fits ; for many parts of all his plays are written 
with the most noble, elegant, and uncorrupted simplicity. Such 
is his merit, that the more just and refined the taste of the nation 
is become, the more he has increased in reputation. He was ap- 
proved by his own age, admired by the next, and is revered and 
almost . adored by the present. His merit is disputed by little 
wits, and his errors are the jests of little critics; but there has 
not been a great poet, or great critic, since his time, who has not 
spoken of him with the highest veneration, Mr. Voltaire alone 
excepted; whose translations often, whose criticisms still oftener, 
prove he did not perfectly understand the words of the author ; 
and therefore it is certain he could not enter into his meaning. 
He comprehended enough to perceive that Shakspeare was unob- 
servant of some established rules of composition ; the felicity with 
which he performs what no rules can teach escapes him. Will 
not an intelligent spectator admire the prodigious structures of 
Stonehenge, because he does not know by what laws of mechanics 
they were raised? Like them, our author's works will remain for 
ever the greatest monuments of the amazing force of nature, which 
we ought to view, as we do other prodigies, with an attention to 
and admiration of their stupendous parts, and proud irregularity 
of greatness. 

Essay on Shakspeare. 



SHAKSPEARE S TRAGIC POWER. 

If the mind is to be medicated by the operations of pity and 
terror, surely no means are so well adapted to that end as a 
strong and lively representation of the agonizing struggles that 



36 BLAIR. [GEORGE III. 

precede, and the terrible horrors that follow, wicked actions. Other 
poets thought thej had sufficiently attended to the moral purpose 
of the drama by making the Furies pursue the perpetrated crime. 
Our author waves their bloody daggers in the road to guilt, and 
demonstrates that, so soon as a man begins to hearken to ill sug- 
gestions, terrors environ and fears distract him. Tenderness 
and conjugal love combat in the breasts of a Medea and a Herod, 
in their purposed vengeance. Personal affection often weeps on 
the theatre, while Jealousy or Revenge whet the bloody knife : 
but Macbeth's emotions are the struggles of conscience; his 
agonies are the agonies of remorse. They are lessons of justice, 
and warnings to innocence. I do not know that any dramatic 
writer, except Shakspeare, has set forth the pangs of guilt sepa- 
rate from the fear of punishment. Clytemnestra is represented 
by Euripides, as under great terrors on account of the murder of 
Agamemnon; but they arise from fear of punishment, not re- 
pentance. It is not the memory of the assassinated husband 
which haunts and terrifies her, but an apprehension of vengeance 
from his surviving son : when she is told Orestes is dead, her mind 
is again at ease. It must be allowed that, on the Grecian stage, 
it is the office of the chorus to moralize, and to point out, oh every 
occasion, the advantages of virtue over vice : but how much less 
affecting are their animadversions than the testimony of the person 
concerned ! Whatever belongs to the part of the chorus has 
hardly the force of dramatic imitation. The chorus is in a manner 
without personal character, or interest, and no way an agent in the 
drama. We cannot sympathize with the cool reflections of these 
idle spectators as we do with the sentiments of the persons in 
whose circumstances and situation we are interested. 

The same. 



HUGH BLAIR, ] 718-1800. 

Dr. Hugh Blair, the son of John Blair, a respectable merchant of 
Edinburgh, was born in that city on the 7th of April, 1718. Afier having 
gone through, the usual grammatical course at the High School, he entered 
the University of Edinburgh in 1730, where he spent eleven years in the 
study of literature, philosophy, and divinity. Heie he commenced a method 
of study, which contributed much to the accuracy and extent of his know- 
ledge, and which he practiced, occasionally, even in the latter part of his 



1760-1820.] BLAIR. 37 

life. It consisted in making abstracts of the most important works which 
he read, and in digesting them according to the train of his own thoughts. 
In 1739, he received the degree of A. M., and in 1741, he was Ucensed to 
preach by the Presbytery of Edinburgh. In the following year, he was set- 
tled in the parish of Colessie, in Fifeshire, but was not permitted to remain 
long in this rural retreat ; for a vacancy occurring in the Canongate Church, 
in Edinburgh, he was elected its minister. In this station. Dr. Blair remained 
eleven years, discharging with great fidelity the various duties of the pastoral 
office, and attracting general admiration for the chaste eloquence of his pulpit 
discourses. 

In 1754, he was transferred from the Canongate to Lady Yester's Church, 
and in 1758 was promoted to the High Church of Edinburgh, the m.ost im- 
portant ecclesiastical charge in the kingdom. Hitherto his attention was 
devoted almost exclusively to the attainment of eminence in his own pro- 
fession, but in 1759 he delivered a course of Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles 
Lettres, with such success that the University instituted a rhetorical class 
under his direction, and the king founded a professorship, to the chair of 
which Dr. Blair was appointed. In 1763, he published a " Dissertation on 
the Poems of Ossian," which evinced critical taste and learning. In 1777, 
appeared the first volume of his sermons, which were received with great 
favor, and had a very extensive circulation. In 1783, he resigned his pro- 
fessorship, and published his celebrated "Lectures on Rhetoric," which 
have been a text-book in most of our colleges for half a century. The 
latter years of his life he spent in literary leisure, giving to the public three 
more volumes of sermons, and in the summer of 1800, began to prepare an 
additional volume ; but he did not live to complete it, his death occurring 
December 27th of that year. He had married in 1748 his cousin Miss 
Bannatine,. by whom he had a son and a daughter. But he survived them 
all. 

Though the sermons of Dr. Blair have not the popularity they once 
enjoyed, they are still very pleasing compositions of the kind; but they 
may be considered rather as didactic treatises than sermons. Though not 
profound, they are written with great taste and elegance, and by inculcating 
Christian morality, without any allusion to controversial topics, are suited 
to all classes of Christians. • They blend, in a happy manner, the light of 
argument with the warmth of exhortation ; but they never produce deep 
emotion — never sound the depths of the heart. But it is by his "Lectures 
on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres" that Dr. Blair is now chiefly known; and 
they are deservedly popular. Though not equal to Campbell's " Philosophy 
of Rhetoric" in depth of thought or in ingenious original research, they 
are written in a most pleasing style, convey a large amount of valuable 
information, suggest many most useful hints, and contain an accurate ana- 

* Dining with a select company at Mrs. Garrick's, Dr. Johnson said, " I love 
Blair's Sermons, though the dog is a Scotchman, and a Presbyterian, and every- 
thing he should not be. I was the first to praise them. Such was my can- 
dor" (smiling). Mrs. Boscmven. — " Suchhis great merit to get the better of all 
your prejudices." Johnson. — " Why, madam, let us compound the matter ; let 
us ascribe it to my candor, and his merit." — Croker's Boswell, vol. viii. p. 76. 



38 BLAIR. [GEORGE III. 

lysis of the principles of literary composition in almost every species of 
writing, and an able digest of the rules of eloquence as adapted to the pulpit, 
the bar, or to popular assemblies. The time will be far distant, if it ever 
arrives, when they shall cease to be a text-book for the liberal Education of 
youth. 



ON THE CULTIVATION OF TASTE. 

Belles lettres and criticism cliiefly consider man as a being 
endowed with those powers of taste and imagination which were 
intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational 
and useful entertainment. They open a field of investigation 
peculiar to themselves. All that relates to beauty, harmony, 
grandeur, and elegance ; all that can soothe the mind, gratify the 
fancy, or move the affections, belongs to their province. They 
present human nature under a different aspect from that which it 
assumes when viewed by other sciences. They bring to light 
various springs of action, which, without their aid, might have 
passed unobserved; and which, though of a delicate nature, fre- 
quently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human 
life. 

Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they exer- 
cise our reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inquiries acute, 
but not painful; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. They strew 
flowers in the path of science; and while they keep the mind 
bent, in some degree, and active, they relieve it at the same time 
from that more toilsome labor to which it must submit in the 
acquisition of necessary erudition, or the investigation of abstract 
truth. 

The cultivation of taste is farther recommended by the happy 
effects which it naturally tends to produce on human life. The 
most busy man, in the most active sphere, cannot be always occu- 
pied by business. Men of serious professions cannot always be 
on the stretch of serious thought. Neither can the most gay and 
flourishing situations of fortune afford any man the power of filling 
all his hours with pleasure. Life must always languish in the 
hands of the idle. It will frequently languish even in the hands 
of the busy, if they have not some employments subsidiary to that 
which forms their main pursuit. How then shall these vacant 
spaces, those unemployed intervals, which more or less occur in 
the life of every one, be filled up ? How can we contrive to dispose 
of them in any way that shall be more agreeable in itself, or more 
consonant to the dignity of the human mind, than in the enter- 



1760-1820.] BLAIR. 39 

tainments of taste, and the study of polite literature? He who 
is so happy as to have acquired a relish for these has always at 
hand an innocent and irreproachable amusement for his leisure 
hours, to save him from the danger of many a pernicious passion. 
He is not in hazard of being a burden to himself. He is not 
obliged to fly to low company, or to court the riot of loose pleasures, 
in order to cure the tediousness of existence. 

Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful purpose 
to which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by interposing 
them in a middle station between the pleasures of sense and those 
of pure intellect. We were not designed to grovel always among 
objects so low as the former; nor are we capable of dwelling con- 
stantly in so high a region as the latter. The pleasures of taste 
refresh the mind after the toils of the intellect and the labors 
of abstract study; and they gradually raise it above the attach- 
ments of sense, and prepare it for the enjoyments of virtue. 

So consonant is this to experience, that, in the education of 
youth, no object has in every age appeared more important to wise 
men than to tincture them early with a relish for the entertain- 
ments of taste. The transition is commonly made with ease from 
these to the discharge of the higher and more important duties of 
life. Good hopes may be entertained of those whose minds have 
this liberal and elegant turn. It is favorable to many virtues. 
Whereas to be entirely devoid of relish for eloquence, poetry, or 
any of the fine arts, is justly construed to be an unpromising 
symptom of youth; and raises suspicions of their being prone to 
low gratifications, or destined to drudge in the more vulgar and 
illiberal pursuits of life. 



DELICACY AND CORRECTNESS OF TASTE. 

The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved 
state, are all reducible to two, Delicacy and Correctness. 

Delicacy of taste respects principally the perfection of that 
natural sensibility on which taste is founded. It implies those 
finer organs or powers which enable us to discover beauties that 
lie hid from a vulgar eye. One may have strong sensibility, and 
yet be deficient in delicate taste. He may be deeply impressed 
by such beauties as he perceives; but he perceives only what is 
in some degree coarse, what is bold and palpable; while chaster 
and simpler ornaments escape his notice. In this state, taste 
generally exists among rude and unrefined nations. But a person 



40 BLAIR. [GEORGE III. 

of delicate taste botli feels strongly and feels accurately. He sees 
distinctions and differences where others see none ; the most latent 
beauty does not escape him, and he is sensible of the smallest 
blemish. Delicacy of taste is judged of by the same marks that 
we use in judging of the delicacy of an external sense. As the 
goodness of the palate is not tried by strong flavors, but by a 
mixture of ingredients, where, notwithstanding the confusion, we 
remain sensible of each; in like manner delicacy of internal taste 
appears by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most com- 
pounded, or most latent objects. 

Correctness of taste respects chiefly the improvement which that 
faculty receives through its connection with the understanding. A 
man of correct taste is one who is never imposed on by counterfeit 
beauties; who carries always in his mind that standard of good 
sense which he employs in judging of everything. He estimates 
with propriety the comparative merit of the several beauties which 
he meets with in any work of genius; refers them to their proper 
classes; assigns the principles, as far as they can be traced, whence 
their power of pleasing flows; and is pleased himself precisely in 
that degree in which he ought, and no more. 

It is true that these two qualities of taste, delicacy and cor- 
rectness, mutually imply each other. No taste can be exquisitely 
delicate without being correct; nor can be thoroughly correct 
without being delicate. But still a predominancy of one or other 
quality in the mixture is often visible. The power of delicacy is 
chiefly seen in discerning the true merit of a work; the power of 
correctness, in rejecting false pretensions to merit. Delicacy leans 
more to feeling; correctness, more to reason and judgment. The 
former is more the gift of nature ; the latter, more the product of 
culture and art. Among the ancient critics, Longinus possessed 
most delicacy; Aristotle, most correctness. Among the moderns, 
Mr. Addison is a high example of delicate taste ; Dean Swift, had 
he written on the subject of criticism, would perhaps have afforded 
the example of a correct one. 



ON SUBLIMITY. 

It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression which 
great and sublime objects make upon us, when we behold them; 
but every one has a conception of it. It produces a sort of internal 
elevation and expansion; it raises the mind much above its ordi- 
nary state, and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, 



1760-1820.] BLAIR. 41 

wliich it cannot well express. The emotion is certainly delightful ; 
but it is altogether of the serious kind ; a degree of awfulness and 
solemnity, even approaching to severity, commonly attends it when 
at its height; very distinguishable from the more gay and brisk 
emotion raised by beautiful objects. 

The simplest form of external grandeur appears in the vast and 
boundless prospects presented to us by nature; such as wide ex- 
tended plains, to which the eye can see llo limits; the firmament 
of heaven ; or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All vastness 
produces the impression of sublimity. It is to be remarked, how- 
ever, that space extended in length makes not so strong an im- 
pression as height or depth. Though a boundless plain be a grand 
object, yet a high mountain, to which we look up, or an awful 
precipice or tower whence we look down on the objects which lie 
below, is still more so. The excessive grandeur of the firmament 
arises from its height joined to its boundless extent; and that of 
the ocean, not from its extent alone, but from the perpetual motion 
and irresistible force of that mass of waters. Wherever space is 
concerned, it is clear that amplitude or greatness of extent, in one 
dimension or other, is necessary to grandeur. Remove all bounds 
from any object, and you presently render it sublime. Hence 
infinite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind 
with great ideas. 

From this some have imagined that vastness, or amplitude of 
extent, is the foundation of all sublimity. But I cannot be of this 
opinion, because many objects appear sublime which have no rela- 
tion to space at all. Such, for instance, is great loudness of sound. 
The burst of thunder or of cannon, the roaring of winds, the shout- 
ing of multitudes, the sound of vast cataracts of water, are all 
incontestably grand objects. " I heard the voice of a great mul- 
titude, as the sound of many waters, and of mighty thunderings, 
saying, Allelujah." In general, we may observe that great power 
and strength exerted always raise sublime ideas; and perhaps the 
most copious source of these is derived from this quarter. Hence 
the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains; of great 
conflagrations; of the stormy ocean, and overflowing waters; of 
tempests of wind; of thunder and lightning; and of all the uncom- 
mon violence of the elements. Nothing is more sublime than 
mighty power and strength. A stream that runs within its banks 
is a beautiful object, but when it rushes down with thifimpetuosity 
and noise of a torrent, it presently becomes a sublime one. From 
lions and other animals of strength are drawn sublime comparisons 
in poets. A race-horse is looked upon with pleasure; but it is the 
5 



42 BLAIR. [GEORGE III. 

war-horse, "whose neck is clothed with thunder/^ that carries 
grandeur in its idea. 



PROPER DISTRIBUTION OP TIME. 

Time we ought to consider as a sacred trust, committed to us 
by God; of which we are now the depositories, and are to render 
an account at the last. That portion of it which he has allotted 
to us is intended partly for the concerns of this world, partly for 
those of the next. Let each of these occupy, in the distribution 
of our time, that space which properly belongs to it. 

Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure interfere with the 
discharge of our necessary affairs; and let not what we call neces- 
sary affairs encroach upon the time which is due to devotion. To 
everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under 
heaven. If we delay till to-morrow what ought to be done to-day, 
we overcharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. 
We load the wheels of time, and prevent them from carrying us 
along smoothly. 

He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and 
follows out that plan, carries on a thread which will guide him 
through the labyrinth of the most busy life. The orderly arrange- 
ment of his time is like a ray of light, which darts itself through 
all his affairs. But where no plan is laid, where the disposal of 
time is surrendered merely to the chance of incidents, all things 
lie huddled together in one chaos, which admits neither of distri- 
bution nor review. 

The first requisite for introducing order into the management 
of time, is to be impressed with a just sense of its value. Let us 
consider well how much depends upon it, and how fast it flies 
away. The bulk of men are in nothing more capricious and in- 
consistent than in their appreciation of time. When they think of 
it as the measure of their continuance on earth, they highly prize 
it, and with the greatest anxiety seek to lengthen it out. 

But when they view it in separate parcels, they appear to hold 
it in contempt, and squander it with inconsiderate profusion. 
While they complain that life is short, they are often wishing its 
different periods at an end. Covetous of every other possession, 
of time only they are prodigal. They allow every idle man to be 
master of this property, and make every frivolous occupation wel- 
come that can help them to consume it. 

Among those who are so careless of time, it is not to be ex- 
pected that order should be observed in its distribution. But, by 






1760-1820.] BEATTIE. 43 

tliis fatal neglect, how many materials of severe and lasting regret 
are they laying up in store for themselves ! The time which they 
suifer to pass away in the midst of confusion, bitter repentance 
seeks afterwards in vain to recall. What was omitted to be done 
at its proper moment arises to be the torment of some future 
season. 

Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected youth. 
Old age, oppressed by cares that belonged to a former period, 
labors under a burden not its own. At the close of life, the dying 
man beholds with anguish that his days are finishing, when his pre- 
paration for eternity is hardly commenced. Such are the effects 
of a disorderly waste of time, through not attending to its value. 
Everything in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is 
performed aright, from not being performed in due season. 

But he who is orderly in the distribution of his time takes the 
proper method of escaping those manifold evils. He is justly said 
to redeem the time. By proper management he prolongs it. He 
lives much in little space; more in a few years than others do in 
many. He can live to God and his own soul, and at the same 
time attend to all the lawful interests of the present world. He 
looks back on the past, and provides for the future. 

He catches and arrests the hours as they fly. They are marked 
down for useful purposes, and their memory remains. Whereas 
those hours fleet by the man of confusion like a shadow. His 
days and years are either blanks, of which he has no remembrance, 
or they are filled up with so confused and irregular a succession 
of unfinished transactions, that though he remembers he has been 
busy, yet he can give no account of the business which has em- 
ployed him. 



JAMES BEATTIE, 1735—1803. 

James Beattie, a much admired poet and a distinguished moral philo- 
sopher, was born in Lawrence Kirk, Kincardinshire, in the north' east part 
of Scotland, on the 20th of October, 1735. His father, who was poor, died 
when the poet was only ten years old ; but his elder brother kept him at 
school till he obtained a "bursary" (a kind of benefaction for poor 
scholars) at the Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he remained four 
years. Having received his degree of A. M. in 1753, he took a small 
school at Fordoun, near his native village. Here he employed his time 



44 BEATTIE. [GEORGE III. 

chiefly in studying the classics, and in composing various small poetical 
pieces, which appeared from time to time in the " Scot's Magazine/.' and 
drew him more and more into notice, until, in 1758, he was appointed usher 
in the grammar-school at Aberdeen ; and in two years after, he was elected 
Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in the Marischal College. He im- 
mediately prepared a course of lectures for the students, and in 1761 
published a small volume of poems, consisting chiefly of those which had 
already appeared anonymously in the "Scot's Magazine." In 1765, he 
published his poem " The Judgment of Paris," which has but little merit. 
The same year he became acquainted with the poet Gray, then on a visit 
to Scotland, whom he reverently admired ; and a friendship was formed 
between the two poets which terminated only with the death of Gray. 

In June, 1767, he married Miss Mary Dun, daughter of the rector of the 
grammar-school at Aberdeen. In the same year he began to prepare his 
celebrated " Essay on Truth," which appeared in 1770 ; and so much in- 
terest did it excite that, in less than four years, it went through five editions, 
and was translated into several foreign languages. Its chief aim was to 
refute the skeptical writings of Hume, or, in Dr. Beattie's own words, " to 
overthrow scepticism, and establish conviction in its place."' In 1771, he 
gave to the world the first book of his celebrated poem, " The Minstrel." 
It was received with universal approbation. Honors flowed in upon him 
from every quarter. He visited London, and was admitted to all its brilliant 
and distinguished circles; and Goldsmith, Johnson, Garrick, and Rey- 
nolds were soon numbered among his friends. On a second visit in 1773, 
he had an interview with the king and queen, which resulted in his re- 
ceiving a pension of two hundred pounds per annum. 

In 1774, Beattie published the second book of" The Minstrel," the suc- 
cess of which quite equalled that of the former. A new edition of his " Es- 
say on Truth" appeared in 1776, together with three other essays — on Poe- 
try and Music ; on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition ; and on the Utility 
of Classical Learning. In 1786, he published his " Evidences of Chris- 
tianity;" and in the year following, appeared his "Elements of Moral 
Science." In 1790 he lost his eldest son ;^ and, in 1796, his only remaining 

' A very severe article on this essay may be found in the Edinburgh Review^, 
vol. X. p. 171. 

' In the early training of his eldest and beloved son, Dr. Beattie adopted an 
expedient of a romantic and interesting description. His object was to give 
him the first idea of a Supreme Being; and his method, as Dr.'Porteus, Bishop 
of London, remarked, " had all the imagination of Rousseau, without his folly 
and extravagance." 

" He had," says Beattie, "reached his fifth (or sixth) year, knew the alphabet, 
and could read a little ; but had received no particular information with respect 
to the Author of his being, because I thought he could not yet understand such 
information, and because I had learned, from my own experience, that to be 
made to repeat words not understood is extremely detrimental to the faculties 
of a young mind.- In the corner of a little garden, without informing any per- 
son of the circumstance, I wrote in the mould, with my finger, the three initial 
letters of his name, and sowing garden cresses in the furrows, covered up the 
seed, and smoothed the ground. Ten days after he came running to me, and 
with astonishment in his countenance, told m.e that his name was growing in 






1760-1820.] BEATTIE. 45 

one. These afHictions, together with the insanity of his wife, of which 
there were some indications even a few years after they were married, 
seriously affected his health. In April, 1799, he suffered a stroke of the 
palsy, a repetition of which, in 1802, deprived him of the use of his limbs; 
and death finally ended his sufferings, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, 
on the 18th of August, 1803. He was buried beside his two sons in the 
churchyard of St. Nicholas, Aberdeen. 

The fame of Dr. Beattie rests chiefly upon "The Minstrel." It is a 
didactic poem, in the Spenserian stanza, designed " to trace the progress 
of a poetical genius, born in a rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and 
reason till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing 
in the world as a minstrel." The character of Edwin, the Minstrel (in 
which Beattie embodied his own early feelings and poetical aspirations), is 
very finely drawn, and a vein of pathetic moral reflection runs through the 
whole of the poem, which is of the purest kind, and highly elevating in its 
influence. 

The character of Dr. Beattie is delineated in his writings, of which the 
most prominent features are purity of sentiment, and warm attachment to 
the principles of religion and morality. His style is classical, and always 
perspicuous. All his different critical, philological, and moral treatises are 
compositions of a very pleasing character; and it may with truth be said, 
that no one can read his works with a candid mind, and rise from the peru- 
sal of them unimproved — which is the greatest praise of an author. 

the garden. I smiled at the report, and seemed inclined to disregard it ; but he 
insisted on my going to see what had happened. " Yes," said I, carelessly, on 
coming to the place, "I see it is so; but there is nothing in this worth notice; 
it is mere chance," and I went away. He followed me, and taking hold of ray 
coat, said, with some earnestness, "It could not be mere chance, for that 
somebody must have contrived matters so as to produce it." I pretend not to 
give his words or my own, for I have forgotten both; but I give the substance 
of what passed between us in such language as we both understood. " So you 
think," I said, "that what appears so regular as the letters of your name can- 
not be by chance ?" " Yes," said he with firmness, "I think so!" "Look 
at yourself," I replied, "and consider your hands and fingers, your legs and 
feet, and other limbs ; are they not regular in their appearance, and useful to 
you?" He said they were. "Came you then hither," said I, "by chance?" 
"No," he answered, "that cannot be; something must have made me." 
" And who is that something ?" I asked. He said he did not know. (I took 
particular notice that he did not say, as Rousseau fancies a child in like cir- 
cumstances would say, that his parents made him.) I had now gained the 
point I aimed at ; and saw that his reason taught him (though he could not so 
express it) that what begins to be must have a cause, and that what is formed 
with regularity must have an intelligent cause. I therefore told him the name 
of the Great Being who made him and all the world, concerning whose adora- 
ble nature I gave him such information as I thought he could in some mea- 
sure comprehend. The lesson affected him deeply, and he never forgot either 
it or the circumstance that introduced it." 

5* 



46 BEATTIE. [GEORGE III. 



I 



PUBLIC AND PRIVATE EDUCATION COMPARED. 

Could mankind lead their lives in that solitude which is so 
favorable to many of our most virtuous afifections, I should be 
clearly on the side of a private education. But most of us, when 
we go out into the world, find difficulties in our way, which good 
principles and innocence alone will not qualify us to encounter ; 
we must have some address and knowledge of the world different 
from what is to be learned in books, or we shall soon be puzzled, 
disheartened, or disgusted. The foundation of this knowledge is 
laid in the intercourse of schoolboys, or at least of young men of 
the same age. When a boy is always under the direction of a 
parent or tutor, he acquires such a habit of looking up to them for 
advice, that he never learns to think or act for himself; his 
memory is exercised, indeed, in retaining their advice, but his 
invention is suffered to languish, till at last it becomes totally 
inactive. He knows, perhaps, a great deal of history or science ; 
but he knows not how to conduct himself on those ever-changing 
emergencies which are too minute and too numerous to be com- 
prehended in any system of advice. He is astonished at the most 
common appearances, and discouraged with the most trifling 
(because unexpected) obstacles; and he is often at his wits' end, 
where a boy of much less knowledge, but more experience, would 
instantly devise a thousand expedients. * * 

Another inconvenience attending private education is the sup- 
pressing of the principle of emulation, without which it rarely 
happens that a boy prosecutes his studies with alacrity or success. 
I have heard private tutors complain that they were obliged to 
have recourse to flattery or bribery to engage the attention of 
their pupil ; and I need not observe how improper it is to set 
the example of such practices before children. True emulation, 
especially in young and ingenious minds, is a noble principle ; I 
have known the happiest effects produced by it; I never knew it 
to be productive of any vice. In all public schools it is, or ought 
to be, carefully cherished. * * I shall only observe further, that 
when boys pursue their studies at home, they are apt to contract 
either a habit of idleness, or too close an attachment to reading : 
the former breeds innumerable diseases, both in the body and 
soul ; the latter, by filling young and tender minds with more 
knowledge than they can either retain or arrange properly, is apt 
to make them superficial and inattentive, or, what is worse, to 
strain, and consequently impair the faculties, by overstretching 
them. I have known several instances of both. 



1760-1820.] BEATTIE. 47 

The great inconvenience of public education arises from its 
being dangerous to morals. And, indeed, every condition and 
period of human life is liable to temptation. Nor will I deny 
that our innocence, during the first part of life, is much more 
secure at home than anywhere else ; yet even at home, when we 
reach a certain age, it is not perfectly secure. Let young men be 
kept at the greatest distance from bad company j it will not be 
easy to keep them from bad books, to which, in these days, all 
persons may have easy access at all times. Let us, however, sup- 
pose the best ; that both bad books and bad company keep away, 
and that the young man never leaves his parents' or tutor's side 
till his mind be well furnished with good principles, and himself 
arrived at the age of reflection and caution : yet temptations must 
come at last; and when they come, will they have the less strength 
because they are new, unexpected, and surprising? I fear not. 
The more the young man is surprised, the more apt will he be to 
lose his presence of mind, and consequently the less capable of 
self-government. Besides, if his passions are strong, he will be 
disposed to form comparisons between his past state of restraint 
and his present of liberty, very much to the disadvantage of the 
former. His new associates will laugh at him for his reserve and 
preciseness; and his unacquaintance with their manners, and with 
the world, as it will render him the more obnoxious to their 
ridicule, will also disqualify him the more both for supporting 
it with dignity, and also for defending himself against it. A 
young man, kept by himself at home, is never well known, even 
by his parents ; because he is never placed in those circumstances 
which alone are able effectually to rouse and interest his passions, 
and consequently to make his character appear. His parents, 
therefore, or tutors, never know his weak side, nor what particu- 
lar advices or cautions he stands most in need of; whereas, if he 
had attended a public school, and mingled in the amusements and 
pursuits of his equals, his virtues and his vices would have been 
disclosing themselves every day; and his teachers would have 
known what particular precepts and examples it was most expe- 
dient to inculcate upon him. Compare those who have had a 
public education with those who have been educated at home; 
and it will not be found, in fact, that the latter are, either in 
virtue or in talents, superior to the former. 



THE SUPERSTITIONS AND MUSIC OF THE HIGHLANDERS. 

The Highlands of Scotland are a picturesque, but in general a 
melancholy country. Long tracts of mountainous desert, covered 



48 BEATTIE. [GEORGE III. 

with dark heatli, and often obscured by misty weather; narrow 
valleys, thinly inhabited, and bounded by precipices resounding 
with the fall of torrents; a soil so rugged, and a climate so dreary, 
as in many parts to admit neither the amusements of pasturage 
nor the labors of agriculture; the mournful dashing of waves 
along the friths and lakes that intersect the country ; the porten- 
tous noises which every change of the wind and every increase 
and diminution of the waters is apt to raise in a lonely region, 
full of echoes, and rocks, and caverns ; the grotesque and ghastly 
appearance of such a landscape by the light of the moon ; — objects 
like these diffuse a gloom over the fancy, which may be compati- 
ble enough with occasional and social merriment, but cannot fail 
to tincture the thoughts of a native in the hour of silence and 
solitude. If these people, notwithstanding their reformation in 
religion, and more frequent intercourse with strangers, do still 
retain many of their old superstitions, we need not doubt but in 
former times they must have been more enslaved to the horrors 
of imagination, when beset with the bugbears of popery and the 
darkness of paganism. Most of their superstitions are of a melan- 
choly cast. That second sight wherewith some of them are still 
supposed to be haunted, is considered by themselves as a misfor- 
tune, on account of the many dreadful images it is said to obtrude 
upon the fancy. I have been told that the inhabitants of some 
of the Alpine regions do likewise lay claim to a sort of second 
sight. Nor is it wonderful that persons of lively imagination, 
immured in deep solitude, and surrounded with the stupendous 
scenery of clouds, precipices, and torrents, should dream, even 
when they think themselves awake, of those few striking ideas 
with which their lonely lives are diversified ; of corpses, funeral 
processions, and other objects of terror; or of marriages and the 
arrival of strangers, and such like matters of more agreeable curi- 
osity. Let it be observed, also, that the ancient Highlanders of 
Scotland had hardly any other way of supporting themselves than 
by hunting, fishing, or war, professions that are continually ex- 
posed to fatal accidents. And hence, no doubt, additional horrors 
would often haunt their solitude, and a deeper gloom overshadow 
the imagination even of the hardiest native. 

What then would it be reasonable to expect from the fanciful 
tribe, from the musicians and poets, of such a region ? Strains 
expressive of joy, tranquillity, or the softer passions ? No : their 
style must have been better suited to their circumstances. And 
so we find in fact that their music is. The wildest irregularity 
appears in its composition : the expression is warlike and melan- 
choly, and approaches even to the terrible. And that their poetry 



1760-1820.] BEATTIE. 49 

is almost uniformly mournful, and their views of nature dark and 
dreary, will be allowed by all who admit of the authenticity of 
Ossian; and not doubted by any who believe those fragments of 
Highland poetry to be genuine, which many old people, now alive, 
of that country, remember to have heard in their youth, and were 
then taught to refer to a pretty high antiquity. 



OPENING STANZAS OF "THE MINSTREL.'' 

Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to climb' 
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar! 
Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime 
Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
And waged with Fortune an eternal war ; 
Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, 
And Poverty's unconquerable bar. 
In life's low vale remote has pined alone, 
Then dropped into the grave, unpitied and unknown ! 

And yet the languor of inglorious day 
Not equally oppressive is to all ; 
Him who ne'er listened to the voice of praise 
The silence of neglect can ne'er appal. 
There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call. 
Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame; 
Supremely blest, if to their portion fall 
Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim 
Had he whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. 

The rolls of fame I will not now explore ; 
Nor need I here describe, in learned lay. 
How forth the Minstrel fared in days of yore, 
Right glad of heart, though homely in array. 
His waving locks and beard all hoary gray ; 
While from his bending shoulder, decent hung 
His harp, the sole companion of his way. 
Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: 
And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. 

Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride. 
That a poor villager inspires my strain : 
With thee let Pageantry and Power abide ; 
The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign, 

» " The conception of the commencement of the Minstrel is fine, and highly 
poetical ; and it is beautifully and vigorously executed ; but he already falls 
off in the second canto, both in invention and expression." Kead a very 
genial critique on Beattie's Poems, in Sir Egerton Brydges' "Imaginative 
Biography," vol. i, pp. 153-173. 



50 BEATTIE. [GEORGE III. 

Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain 
Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. 
They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain ; 
The parasite their influence ne'er warms, 
Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. 



THE POET S CHILDHOOD. 

There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, 
A shepherd swain, a man of low degree. 
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell, 
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; 
But he, I ween, was of the north countrie !* 
A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms ; 
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free ; 
Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. 

The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made, 
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock ; 
The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never sway'd ; 
An honest heart was almost all his stock; 
His drink the living water from the rock ; 
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent 
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock ; 
And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, 
Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went. 

From labor health, from health contentment springs: 
Contentment opes the source of every joy : 
He envied not, he never thought of kings ; 
Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy. 
That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy ; 
Nor fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled ; 
He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy. 
For on his vows the blameless Phcebe smiled. 
And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child. 

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, 
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; 
Each season look'd delightful, as it past, 
To the fond husband and the faithful wife. 
Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life 
They never roam'd; secure beneath the storm 
Which in Ambition's lofty land is rife. 
Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm 
Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. 

* There is hardly an ancient ballad or romance, wherein the minstrel or 
harper who appears, is not declared, by way of eminence, to have been " of 
the north countrie." It is probable that under this appellation w^ere formerly 
comprehended all the provinces to the north of the Trent. 



1760-1820.] BEATTIE. 51 

The wight, whose tale these artless lines untold, 
Was all the offspring of this humble pair: 
His birth no oracle or seer foretold ; 
No prodigy appear'd in earth or air, 
Nor aught that might a strange event declare. 
You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth; 
The parent's transport, and the parent's care; 
The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth ; 
And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth. 

And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy : 
Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye ; 
Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy, 
Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy: 
Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy; 
And now his look was most demurely sad ; 
And now he iaugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. 
The neighbors stared, and sigli'd, yet bless"d the lad : 
Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. 

But why should I his childish feats display ? 
Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled ; 
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, 
Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head ; 
Or, when the maze of some bewilder'd stream 
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, 
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, 
Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. 

Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, 
To him nor vanity nor joy could bring. 
His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed 
To work the woe of any living thing, 
By trap or net, by arrow, or by sling ; 
These he detested, those he scorn'd to wield; 
He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, 
Tyrant far less, or traitor, of the field. 
And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield, 

Lo ! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves 
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; 
And sees on high, amidst th' encircling groves, 
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine ; 
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, 
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies: 
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? 
Ah ! no : he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. 

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey. 
When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, 
And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn : 



52 ^ BEATTIE. [GEORGE III, 

Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn, 

Where twilight loves to linger for awhile; 

And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, 
. And villager abroad at early toil : 
But lo ! the Sun appears, and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. 

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb. 
When all in mist the world below was lost. 
Wlmt dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime, 
Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast, 
And view th' enormous waste of vapor, toss'd 
In billows, length'ning to th' horizon round. 
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd! 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, 
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound. 

In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, 
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. 
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight: 
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene 
The southern Sun ditfused his dazzling sheen.' 
E'en sad vicissitude amused his soul: 
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene. 
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. 



MORNING. 

But who the melodies of morn can tell? 
The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love. 
And the full choir that v/akes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; 
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark ! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; 
Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; 
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. 

» Brightness, splendor. The word is used by some late writers as well 
as by Milton. 



1760-1820.] BEATTIE. 53 



THE HUMBLE WISH. 

The end and the reward of toil is rest. 
Be all rny prayer for virtue and for peace. 
Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possess'd, 
Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease 1 
Ah! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, 
The lay heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 
The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece, 
All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring, 
If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring! 

Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb 
With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown. 
In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome. 
Where night and desolation ever frown. 
Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down ; 
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, 
With here and there a violet bestrown. 
Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave. 
And many aa evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. 

And thither let the village swain repair; 
And light of heart, the village maiden gay. 
To deck with flowers her half dishevell'd hair, 
And celebrate the merry morn of May. 
There let the shepherd's pipe the live-long day 
Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe ; 
And when mild evening comes in mantle gray, 
Let not the blooming band make haste to go ; 
No ghost nor spell my long and last abode shall know. 



THE HERMIT. 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still. 
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, 
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar. 
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; 
No more with himself or with nature at war, 
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 

" Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, 
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow. 
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, 
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn ; 
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine i)ass away: 
Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 

6 



54 PALEY. [GEORGE III. 

Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, 
The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays ; 
But lately I marked, when majestic on high 
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
The path that conducts thee to splendor again : 
But man's faded glory what change shall renew? 
Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; 
I mourn, but ye woodlands I mourn not for you; 
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew : 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; 
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save : 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!' 

'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed — 
That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to blind — 
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
' O pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried, 
' Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: 
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free ! 

And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : 

So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 

See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, 

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! 

On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, 

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 



'WILLIAM PALEY, 1743-1805. 

"No writers are rewarded with a larger share of immediate celebrity 
than those who address themselves to the understandings of general readers, 
who investigate truths, develop principles, and convey instruction in that 
popular style, and that plain, expressive language, which all read with plea- 
sure, and comprehend whh ease."' Such was eminently the characteristic 
of Dr. William Paley. He was the son of the head-master of Giggleswick 
grammar-school, in Yorkshire, and was born in July, 1743. After having 

* Read two articles on Dr. Paley in the " Quarterly Review," vol. ii. p. 75, 
and vol. ix. p. 388; and another in the " Edinburgh Review," vol. i. p. 287. 



1760-1820.] PALEY. 55 

acquired the rudiments of learning under the tuition of his father, he was 
admitted, in November, 1758, a sizer of Christ's College, Cambridge. For 
some time he attracted notice only as an uncouth but agreeable idler. "I 
spent," he says, "the first two years of my under- graduateship happily, but 
unprofitably. I was constantly in society, where we were not immoral, but 
idle and rather expensive. At the commencement of my third year, how- 
ever, after having left the usual party at rather a late hour in the evening, I 
was awakened, at five in the morning, by one of my companions, who stood 
at my bedside, and said, 'Paley, I have been thinking what a fool you are. 
I could do nothing profitably were I to try, and can afford the life I lead : 
you could do everything, and cannot afford it. I have had no sleep during 
the whole night on account of these reflections, and I am now come solemnly 
to inform you that, if you persist in your indolence, I must renounce your 
society.' I was so struck with the visit and the visitor, that I lay in bed a 
great part of the day and formed my plan." The result was that he changed 
his whole habits, became a close student, and at the close of his college course 
was the first in his class. 

Soon after taking his degf ee, he obtained the situation of usher at a private 
school at Greenwich ; but being elected, in June, 1766, a fellow of the college 
to which he belonged, he fixed his residence at the university, became a 
tutor of his college, and delivered lectures on metaphysics, morals, and the 
Greek Testament. His reputation, in this situation, rose extremely high, as 
he was remarkable for the happy talent of adapting his lectures singularly 
well to the apprehensions of his pupils. In 1775, he was presented to the 
rectory of Musgrove, in Westmoreland; and in the following year he va- 
cated his fellowship by marrying. He was soon advanced by his friend Dr. 
Law, then Bishop of Carlisle, to various preferments, until he was finally, 
in 1782, made archdeacon and chancellor of that diocese. Here he digested 
and prepared his celebrated work, the "Principles of Moral and Political 
Philosophy," which appeared in 1785. His "Horse Paulinae" followed in 
1790, and his "Evidences of Christianity" in 1794. Soon after this, he became 
so infirm as to be incapable of preaching, and he devoted his attention almost 
exclusively to the preparation of his " Natural Theology, or Evidences of 
the Existence and Attributes of a Deity, collected from the Appearances of 
Nature," which was pubhshed in 1802. He died on the 25th of May, 1805, 
leaving a wife and eight children. 

" Dr. Paley was, in private life, a cheerful, social, unassuming character, 
and of an equable temper. He entered with great zest into the common 
enjoyments of life, and was anxious to promote good humor and harmless 
mirth on all occasions. His conversation was free and unreserved : he had 
a strong relish of wit, a copious fund of anecdote, and told a story with 
peculiar archness and naivete^ 

"As a writer, he did not p(yssess a comprehensive and grasping genius, 
nor was he endowed with a rich and sparkling imagination. His mind was 
well informed, but not furnished with deep, extensive, ponderous erudition. 
His distinguishing characteristic is a penetrating understanding, and a clear 
logical head : what he himself comprehends fully, that he details luminously. 



66 PALEY. [GEORGE III. 

He takes a subject to pieces with the nice skill of a master, presents to us 
distinctly its several parts, and explains them with accuracy and truth."' 

Few writers have obtained greater popularity than Dr. Paley. Ten edi- 
tions of his " Moral Philosophy" were sold during his lifetime; his " Evi- 
dences of Christianity" was reprinted seventeen times in twenty-seven 
years; and his "Natural Theology" reached a tenth edition in the short 
space of three years from the time of its first publication. His "Horse 
Paulinse,"^ decidedly his most ingenious and original work, was not so 
popular, though exceedingly valued by scholars, and students of divinity. 
Its object is to open a new department of evidence in favor of Christianity, 
by comparing the Epistles of Paul with his history as recorded by Luke in 
the Acts, and by marking what he designates as the "undesigned coinci- 
dences" of the one with the other. In this way he shows the genuineness 
of both, and thus furnishes a novel and ingenious, and at the same time a 
very conclusive, species of testimony in behalf of Revealed religion. 

The most exceptionable of all Paley's works is his " Moral Philosophy." 
In it he takes the ground that "whatever is expedient is right" — a doctrine 
true, indeed, if man could see all things, and look into futurity; but a most 
dangerous one to a being so short-sighted as he who "knows not what a 
day may bring forth." Indeed, in many parts of this work may be found 
sentiments altogether too loosely expressed, and principles of action of too 
compromising a character laid down, which at once remind us of his 
remark, when he was a fellow at Cambridge, and had been requested to 
sign a petition for relief in the matter of subscription to the " Thirty-nine 
Articles" of the Church of England, that he "was too poor to keep a 
conscience." In other words, that, where his conscience and his worldly 
interests came in conflict, the former must give way to the latter. So also, 
about the same time, he offered, as a subject which he intended to discuss, 
"The Eternity of Future Punishment contradictory to the Divine Attri- 
butes:" but, finding that it would be very displeasing to the master of his 
college, he concluded to insert the word "not" before "contradictory." 

But, if there is much that is exceptionable in his Moral Philosophy, ^ there 
is also much that is truly valuable ; while all his other works are, without 
any qualification, eminently subservient to religion and sound morals. 

* " Quarterly Review," vol. ii. p. 86. 

= Literally, "Pauline Hours;" that is, hours spent in comparing numerous 
facts, which the apostle Paul incidentally states of himself in his Epistles, with 
what is narrated of him in the Acts of the Apostles. 

3 For a triumphant refutation of the dangerous doctrines of his Moral Phi- 
losophy, read the "Essays on Morality," by tlftit clear-headed, conscientious 
Christian and Quaker moralist, Jonathan Dymond — the best work on the subject 
extant. But a clergyman of the Church of England has come to the rescue 
of Paley, in a work with the following title, "A Vindication of Dr. Paley's 
Theory of Morals from the Objections of Du^ld Stew^art, Mr. Gisborne, Dr. 
Pierson, and Dr. Tliomas Brown, &c., by the Rev. Latham Wainewright, 
MA." His arguments, if not conclusive, are certainly very ingenious. 






1760-1820.] PALEY. 57 



HUMILITY. 

The habit of contemplating our spiritual acquirements, our re- 
ligious or moral excellences, has very usually, and, I think, almost 
unavoidably, an unfavorable effect upon our disposition towards 
other men. A man who is continually computing his riches, 
almost in spite of himself grows proud of his wealth. A man 
who accustoms himself to read, and inquire, and think a great deal 
about his family, becomes vain of his extraction. A man who has 
his titles sounding in his ears, or his state much before his eyes, 
is lifted up by his rank : these are effects which every one observes, 
and no inconsiderable degree of the same effect springs from the 
habit of meditating upon our virtues. Now humble-mindedness 
is a Christian duty, if there be one. It is more than a duty; it 
is a principle; and its influence is exceedingly great, not only upon 
our religious, but our social character. They who are truly humble- 
minded have no quarrels, give no offence, contend with no one in 
wrath and bitterness; still more impossible is it for them to insult 
any man under any circumstances. But the way to be humble- 
minded is the way I am pointing out, namely, to think less of our 
virtues and more of our sins. In reading the parable of the Pha- 
risee and the publican, if we could suppose them to be real cha- 
racters, I should say of them, that the one had first come from 
ruminating upon his virtues, the other from meditating upon his 
sins: and mark the difference, first, in their behavior; next, in 
their acceptance with God. The Pharisee is all loftiness, and con- 
temptuousness, and recital, and comparison; full of ideas of merit; 
views the poor publican, although withdrawn to a distance from 
him, with eyes of scorn. The publican, on the contrary, enters 
not into competition with the Pharisee, or any one. So far from 
looking round, he durst not so much as lift up his eyes, but casts 
himself, hardly indeed presumes to cast himself, not upon the 
justice, but wholly and solely upon the mercies of his Maker — 
'^ God be merciful to me a sinner.'' We know the judgment which 
our Lord himself pronounced upon the case : ^' I tell you this man 
went down to his house justified rather than the other.'' The more, 
therefore, we are like the publican, and the less we are like the 
Pharisee, the more we come up to the genuine temper of Christ's 
religion. 



68 PALEY. [GEORGE III. 



THE WORLD WAS MADE WITH A BENEVOLENT DESIGN. 

It is a happy world after all. The air, the earth, the water, 
teem with delighted existence. In a spring noon or a summer 
evening, on whichever side I turn my eyes, myriads of happy 
beings crowd upon my view. " The insect youth are on the wing." 
Swarms of new-born flies are trying their pinions in the air. 
Their sportive motions, their wanton mazes, their gratuitous acti- 
vity, their continual change of place without use or purpose, testify 
their joy and the exultation which they feel in their lately-disco- 
vered faculties. A bee amongst the flowers, in spring, is one of the 
most cheerful objects that can be looked upon. Its life appears to 
be all enjoyment; so busy and so pleased: yet it is only a speci- 
men of insect life, with which, by reason of the animal being half 
domesticated, we happen to be better acquainted than we are with 
that of others. The whole winged insect tribe, it is probable, are 
equally intent upon their proper employments, and, under every 
variety of constitution, gratified, and perhaps equally gratified, by 
the offices which the Author of their nature has assigned to them. 
But the atmosphere is not the only scene of enjoyment for the 
insect race. Plants are covered with aphides, greedily sucking 
their juices, and constantly, as it should seem, in the act of suck- 
ing. It cannot be doubted but that this is a state of gratification : 
what else should fix them so close to the operation, and so long? 
Other species are running about with an alacrity in their motions 
which carries with it every mark of pleasure. Large patches of 
ground are sometimes half covered with these brisk and sprightly 
natures. If we look to what the waters produce, shoals of the 
fry of fish frequent the margins of rivers, of lakes, and of the sea 
itself. These are so happy that they know not what to do with 
themselves. Their attitudes, their vivacity, their leaps out of the 
water, their frolics in it (which I have noticed a thousand times 
with equal attention and amusement), all conduce to show their 
excess of spirits, and are simply the effects of that excess. Walk- 
ing by the sea-side in a calm evening upon a sandy shore and with 
an ebbing tide, I have frequently remarked the appearance of a 
dark cloud, or rather very thick mist, hanging over the edge of 
the water, to the height, perhaps, of half a yard, and of the breadth 
of two or three yards, stretching along the coast as far as the eye 
could reach, and always retiring with the water. When this cloud 
came to be examined, it proved to be nothing else than so much 
space filled with young shrimps in the act of bounding into the 



1760-1820.] PALEY. 59 

air from the shallow margin of the water, or from the wet sand. 
If any motion of a mute animal could express delight, it was this : 
if they had meant to make signs of their happiness, they could 
not have done it more intelligibly. Suppose, then, what I have no 
doubt of, each individual of this number to be in a state of positive 
enjoyment — what a sum, collectively, of gratification and pleasure 
have we here before our view ! 

The young of all animals appear to me to receive pleasure simply 
from the exercise of their limbs and bodily faculties, without refer- 
ence to any end to be attained, or any use to be answered by the 
exertion. A child, without knowing anything of the use of lan- 
guage, is in a high degree delighted with being able to speak. Its 
incessant repetition of a few articulate sounds, or perhaps of the 
single word which it has learned to pronounce, proves this point 
clearly. Nor is it less pleased with its first successful endeavors 
to walk, or rather to run (which precedes walking), although en- 
tirely ignorant of the importance of the attainment to its future 
life, and even without applying it to any present purpose. A child 
is delighted with speaking, without having anything to say; and 
with walking, without knowing where to go. And, prior to both 
these, I am disposed to believe that the waking hours of infancy 
are agreeably taken up with the exercise of vision, or perhaps, 
more properly speaking, with learning to see. 

But it is not for youth alone that the great Parent of creation 
hath provided. Happiness is found with the purring cat no less 
than with the playful kitten; in the arm-chair of dozing age, as 
well as in either the sprightliness of the dance or the animation 
of the chase. To novelty, to acuteness of sensation, to hope, to 
ardor of pursuit, succeeds what is, in no inconsiderable degree, 
an equivalent for them all, "perception of ease.^' Herein is the 
exact difference between the young and the old. The young are 
not happy but when enjoying pleasure; the old are happy when 
free from pain. And this constitution suits with the degrees of 
animal power which they respectively possess. The vigor of youth 
was to be stimulated to action by impatience of rest; whilst, to the 
imbecility of age, quietness and repose become positive gratifica- 
tions. In one important step the advantage is with the old. A 
state of ease is, generally speaking, more attainable than a state 
of pleasure. A constitution, therefore, which can enjoy ease, is 
preferable to that which can taste only pleasure. This same per- 
ception of ease oftentimes renders old age a condition of great 
comfort, especially when riding at its anchor after a busy or tem- 
pestuous life. It is well described by Rousseau to be the interval 
of repose and enjoyment between the hurry and the end of life. 



60 PALEY. [GEORGE III. 

How far the same cause extends to other animal natures, cannot 
be judged of with certainty. The appearance of satisfaction with 
which most animals, as their activity subsides, seek and enjoy rest, 
affords reason to believe that this source of gratification is appointed 
to advanced life under all or most of its various forms. In the 
species with which we are best acquainted, namely, our own, I am 
far, even as an observer of human life, from thinking that youth 
is its happiest season, much less the only happy one. 

Natural Theology. 



NATURE CONTEMPLATED WITH REFERENCE TO AN INTELLIGENT 
AUTHOR. 

Physicians tell us that there is a great deal of difference between 
taking a medicine, and the medicine getting into the constitution. 
A difference not unlike which, obtains with respect to those great 
moral propositions which ought to form the directing principles 
of human conduct. It is one thing to assent to a proposition of 
this sort; another, and a very different thing, to have properly 
imbibed its influence. I take the case to be this : — perhaps almost 
every man living has a particular train of thought into which his 
mind falls, when at leisure from the impressions and ideas that 
occasionally excite it; perhaps, also, the train of thought here 
spoken of, more than any other thing, determines the character. 
It is of the utmost consequence, therefore, that this property of 
our constitution be well regulated. Now, it is by frequent or con- 
tinued meditation upon a subject, by placing a subject in different 
points of view, by induction of particulars, by variety of examples, 
by applying principles to the solution of phenomena, by dwelling 
upon proofs and consequences, that mental exercise is drawn into 
any particular channel. It is by these means at least that we 
have any power over it. The train of spontaneous thought, and 
the choice of that train, may be directed to different ends, and may 
appear to be more or less judiciously fixed, according to the pur- 
pose in respect of which we consider it; but, in a moral view, I 
shall not, I believe, be contradicted when I say that, if one train 
of thinking be more desirable than another, it is that which regards 
the phenomena of nature, with a constant reference to a supreme, 
intelligent Author. To have made this the ruling, the habitual 
sentiment of our minds, is to have laid the foundation of every- 
thing which is religious. The world from thenceforth becomes a 
temple, and life itself one continued act of adoration. The change 
is no less th^n this, that, whereas formerly God was seldom in our 



1760-1820.] PALEY. 61 

thoughts, we can now scarcely look upon anything without per- 
ceiving its relation to him. Every organized natural body, in the 
provisions which it contains for its sustentation and propagation, 
testifies a care on the part of the Creator expressly directed to these 
purposes. We are on all sides surrounded by such bodies; exa- 
mined in their parts, wonderfully curious; compared with one 
another, no less wonderfully diversified. So that the mind, as well 
as the eye, may either expatiate in variety and multitude, or fix 
itself down to the investigation of particular divisions of the 
science. And in either case it will rise up from its occupation, 
possessed by the subject in a very different manner, and with a 
very different degree of influence, from what a mere assent to any 
verbal proposition which can be formed concerning the existence 
of the Deity, at least that merely complying assent with which 
those about us are satisfied, and with which we are too apt to satisfy 
ourselves, will or can produce upon the thoughts. More especially 
may this difference be perceived in the degree of admiration and 
of awe with which the Divinity is regarded, when represented to 
the understanding by its own remarks, its own reflections, and its 
own reasonings, compared with what is excited by any language 
that can be used by others. The works of nature want only to 
be contemplated. When contemplated, they have everything in 
them which can astonish by their greatness; for of the vast scale 
of operation through which our discoveries carry us, at one end 
we see an intelligent power, arranging planetary systems, fixing, 
for instance, the trajectory of Saturn, or constructing a ring of a 
hundred thousand miles diameter, to surround his body, and be 
suspended like a magnificent arch over the heads of his inhabitants; 
and at the other bending a hooked tooth, concerting and providing 
an appropriate mechanism for the clasping and reclasping of the 
filaments of the feather of a humming-bird. We have proof, not 
only of both these works proceeding from an intelligent agent, but 
of their proceeding from the same agent; for, in the first place, 
we can trace an identity of plan, a connection of system, from 
Saturn to our own globe; and when arrived upon our globe, we 
can, in the second place, pursue the connection through all the 
organized, especially the animated bodies which it supports. We 
can observe marks of a common relation, as well to one another 
as to the elements of which their habitation is composed. There- 
fore, one mind hath planned, or at least hath prescribed a general 
plan for all these productions. One Being has been concerned in 
all. 

Natural Theology. 



62 PALEY. [GEORGE III. 



PRAYER. 

We find our Lord resorting to prayer in his last extremity; and 
with an earnestness, I had almost said a vehemence of devotion, 
proportioned to the occasion. As soon as he came to the place, 
he bade his disciples pray. When he was at the place, he said 
unto them. Pray ye, that ye enter not into temptation. This did 
not content him : this was not enough for the state and sufierings 
of his mind. He parted even from them. He withdrew about a 
stone's cast, and kneeled down. Hear how his struggle in prayer 
is described ! Three times he came to his disciples, and returned 
again to prayer : thrice he kneeled down at a distance from them, 
repeating the same words. Being in an agony, he prayed more 
earnestly : drops of sweat fell from his body, as if it had been 
great drops of blood : yet, in all this, throughout the whole scene, 
the constant conclusion of his prayer was, ^' not my will, but thine 
be done.'^ It was the greatest occasion that ever was — and the 
earnestness of our Lord's prayer, the devotion of his soul, cor- 
responded with it. — Scenes of deep distress await us all. It is in 
vain to expect to pass through the world without falling into them. 
But, whatever may be the fortune of our lives, one great extre- 
mity at least, the hour of approaching death, is certainly to be 
passed through. What ought then to occupy us ? What can then 
support us ? — Prayer. Prayer, with our blessed Lord, was a refuge 
from the storm : almost every word he uttered during that tremen- 
dous scene was prayer: prayer the most earnest, the most urgent; 
repeated, continued, proceeding from the recesses of the soul; 
private, solitary ; prayer for deliverance; prayer for strength ; above 
everything, prayer for resignation. 

Sermon viii. 



CHARACTER OF PAUL. 

Here then we have a man of liberal attainments, and, in other 
points, of sound judgment, who had addicted his life to the service 
of the gospel. We see him, in the prosecution of his purpose, 
travelling from country to country, enduring every species of hard- 
ship, encountering every extremity of danger, assaulted by the 
populace, punished by the magistrates, scourged, beat, stoned, left 
for dead; expecting, wherever he came, a renewal of the same 
treatment, and the same dangers; yet, when driven from one city. 



1760-1820.] CARTER. 63 

preaching in the next; spending his whole time in the employment, 
sacrificing to it his pleasures, his ease, his safety; persisting in this 
course to old age, unaltered by the experience of perverseness, 
ingratitude, prejudice, desertion; unsubdued by anxiety, want, 
labor, persecutions; unwearied by long confinement, undismayed 
by the prospect of death. Such was St. Paul. We have his letters 
in our hands; we have also a history purporting to be written by 
one of his fellow travellers, and appearing, by a comparison with 
these letters, certainly to have been written by some person well 
acquainted with the transactions of his life. From the letters, as 
well as from the history, we gather not only the account which we 
have stated of hwij but that he was one out of many who acted 
and suffered in the same manner; and that of those who did so, 
several had been the companions of Christ's ministry, the ocular 
witnesses, or pretending to be such, of his miracles and of his 
resurrection. We moreover find this same person referring in his 
letters to his supernatural conversion, the particulars and accom- 
panying circumstances of which are related in the history; and 
which accompanying circumstances, if all or any of them be true, 
render it impossible to have been a delusion. We also find him 
positively, and in appropriate terms, asserting that he himself 
worked miracles, strictly and properly so called, in support of the 
mission which he executed; the history, meanwhile, recording 
various passages of his ministry which come up to the extent of 
this assertion. The question is, whether falsehood was ever attested 
by evidence like this. Falsehoods, we know, have found their way 
into reports, into tradition, into books; but is an example to be 
met with of a man voluntarily undertaking a life of want and pain, 
of incessant fatigue, of continual peril; submitting to the loss of 
his home and country, to stripes and stoning, to tedious imprison- 
ment, and the constant expectation of a violent death, for the sake 
of carrying about a story of what was false, and of what, if false, 
he must have known to be so? 

Conclusion of the Horm Paulince. 



ELIZABETH CARTER, 1717—1806. 

Elizabeth Carter, eldest daughter of the Rev. Nicholas Carter, D. D., 
was born at Deal, in Kent, on the 16ih December, 1717. In her early years, 
she gave no promise of excelling in literature, and her father was quite dis- 



64 CARTER. [GEORGE III. 

couraged, and advised her to relinquish her studies ; but intense and syste- 
matic application' soon met with its reward. In a few years, she acquired a 
very critical knowledge of Greek and Latin, and had made considerable 
proficiency in Hebrew, and, before her twenty-first year, she added the 
French, Spanish, and German to her other acquirements.^ But all these 
attainments she felt to be nothing without religion. Her earnest piety was 
the most decided feature of her character in her youth, and continued undi- 
minished to the last moments of her life. 

Notwithstanding her laborious and severe studies, she found leisure for 
amusement, and for the display of a cheerful and ever gay disposition. Of 
dancing she was particularly fond, and entered with great vivacity and 
high spirits into all the innocent diversions of youth. She was fond of 
painting, and attained considerable excellence in the art ; and, before her 
seventeenth year, she courted the Muses, by translating from the Greek the 
thirtieth ode of Anacreon ; and the next year she sent two or three poetical 
effusions to the " Gentleman's Magazine." In 1739, she gave a translation 
from the French of the critique of Crousaz on "'Pope's Essay on Man," and 
of Algarotti's "Explanation of Newton's Philosophy, for the Use of Ladies,'' 
which procured her a high reputation among the hterati, both in England 
and on the Continent.^ In 1746, she wrote her " Ode to Wisdom," one of 
the most elegant and interesting of her poetical eflfusions. By this time, of 
course, her literary acquaintance was very extensive. Of these. Dr. Seeker 
(afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury) was warmly attached to her, and 
was of great service to her in her literary pursuits ; and Dr. Johnson was so 
struck with the depth and variety of her acquisitions, that he wrote a Greek 
epigram in her praise."* 

• " I talked of the difficulty of early rising-. Dr. Johnson told me that the 
learned Mrs. Carter, at that period vs^hen she was eager in study, did not 
awake as early as she wished, and she therefore had a contrivance that, at 
a certain hour, her chamber light should burn a string, to which a heavy weight 
was suspended, which then fell with a strong, sudden noise : this roused her 
from sleep, and then she had no difficulty in getting up." Croker's Boswelj, 
vol. vi. p. 310. 

= These acquirements were not made, as they never should be, at the ex- 
pense of more feminine accomplishments. " Upon hearing a lady commended 
for her learning, Dr. Johnson said, ' A man is in general better pleased when 
he has a good dinner upon his table than when his wife talks Greek. My 
old friend, Mrs. Carter,' he added, 'could make a pudding as well as trans- 
late Epictetus from the Greek, and work a handkerchief as well as compose a 
poem.' " Croker's Boswell, vol. ix. p. 129. 

3 She was highly complimented for this effort by a writer in the " Gentle- 
man's Magazine," vol. ix. p. 322 : — 

" Be thine the glory to have led the way. 

And beam'd on female minds fair science's ray ; 

Awak'd our fair from too inglorious ease, 

To meditate on themes sublime as these : 

The many paths of nature to explore, 

And boldly tread where none have reach'd before." 

* In a letter to Cave, he says, " I have composed a Greek epigram to Eliza, 
and think she ought to be celebrated in as many different languages as Louis 
le Grand." 



1760-1820.] CARTER. 65 

Encouraged by the approbation of her intimate friend, Miss Talbot, ' and of 
Dr. Seeker, she commenced, in 1749, when in her thirty-second year, 9, 
translation of the writings of Epictetus. It was completed in 1756, and pub- 
lished in 1758, in one volume, quarto. About one thousand three hundred 
copies were printed, and she realized one thousand pounds as the pecuniary 
reward of her labors. But a reward of a much higher kind awaited her 
— the applause and the approval of the learned, the wise, and the good. 
Scholars were astonished that so difficult a Greek author should be trans- 
lated with such accuracy, and elegance, and varied learning, by a woman; 
and Dr. Johnson is reported, in consequence, to have said, when a cele- 
brated Greek scholar was spoken of: " Sir, he is the best Greek scholar 
in England, except Elizabeth Carter. ^^ 

In the year 1762, she was induced to publish a collection of her poems, 
in one small volume, which, before the close of the century, passed through 
five or six editions. The character of her poetry is such as might have been 
expected from the elegance of her classical learning, the purity of her moral 
principles, and her consistent piety. While, to high imagination, or to 
great creative power, she can lay no claim, her language is clear and cor- 
rect, her versification sweet and harmonious, and her sentiments all that 
the moralist or the Christian could wish — pure, dignified, devotional, and 
sometimes rising to the sublime. 

At this time her society was courted by the good and the learned every- 
where ; but she never favored mere literary eminence, unless it were con- 
nected with purity of character. Without this, no talents, however brilUant, 
attracted her regard, or could be admitted into her social circle. What a 
change would soon be seen and felt throughout society, if every female had 
the firmness and moral courage to take this position, and to say to every 
known dissipated character what Henry V. said to FalstafT — " Not to 
come near our person by ten miles !" 

In the latter part of her life, Mrs. Carter began to feel heavily the devas- 
tation which death usually makes among the friends of those who are des- 
tined to long life. In 1768, Dr. Seeker died; in 1770, her beloved com- 
panion, Miss Talbot ; in 1774, her venerable father, at the age of eighty-six ; 
and, in 1800, her old and valued friend, Mrs. Montagu. She herself ex- 
pired, with perfect calmness and resignation, on the morning of the 19th 
of February, I8O6.2 

Of Mrs. Carter's poems we have before spoken. Her chief original prose 
compositions were letters, and two numbers in the Rambler, No. 44 and 
No. 100. The former consists of an allegory, wherein religion and super- 
stition are contrasted in a most admirable manner. 

' See Compendium of English Literature, p. 566. 
* Read a memoir of her in Drake's Essays, vol. v. 



66 CARTER, [GEORGE III. 



^ RELIGION AND SUPERSTITION. 

To the Ramhler. 

Sir : I had lately a very remarkable dream, which made so 
strong an impression on me, that I remember it every word ; and 
if you are not better employed, you may read the relation of it 
as follows : — 

Methought I was in the midst of a very entertaining set of 
company, and extremely delighted in attending to a lively con- 
versation, when, on a sudden, I perceived one of the most shock- 
ing figures imagination can frame, advancing towards me. She 
was drest in black, her skin was contracted into a thousand 
wrinkles, her eyes deep sunk in her head, and her complexion 
pale and livid as the countenance of death. Her looks were filled 
with terror and unrelenting severity, and her hands armed with 
whips and scorpions. As soon as she came near, with a horrid 
frown, and a voice that chilled my very blood, she bid me follow 
her. I obeyed, and she led me through rugged paths, beset with 
briers and thorns, into a deep solitary valley. Wherever she 
passed, the fading verdure withered beneath her steps ; her pesti- 
lential breath infected the air with malignant vapors, obscured 
the lustre of the sun, and involved the fair face of heaven in uni- 
versal gloom. Dismal bowlings resounded through the forest, 
from every baleful tree the night-raven uttered his dreadful note, 
and the prospect was filled with desolation and horror. In the 
midst of this tremendous scene, my execrable guide addressed me 
in the following manner : — 

" Retire with me, rash, unthinking mortal, from the vain allure- 
ments of a deceitful world, and learn that pleasure was not de- 
signed the portion of human life. Man was born to mourn and 
to be wretched ; this is the condition of all below the stars, and 
whoever endeavors to oppose it acts in contradiction to the will 
of Heaven. Fly then from the fatal enchantments of youth and 
social delight, and here consecrate the solitary hours to lamenta- 
tion and woe. Misery is the duty of all sublunary beings, and 
every enjoyment is an offence to the Deity, who is to be wor- 
shipped only by the mortification of every sense of pleasure, and 
the everlasting exercise of sighs and tears.^^ 

This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, and 
seemed to annihilate every principle of joy within me. I threw 
myself beneath a blasted yew, where the winds blew cold and 
dismal round my head, and dreadful apprehensions chilled my 
heart. Here I resolved to lie till the hand of death, which I im- 



1760-1820.] CARTER. 67 

patiently invoked, should put an end to the miseries of a life so 
deplorably wretched. In this sad situation I espied on one hand 
of me a deep muddy river, whose heavy waters rolled on in slow 
sullen murmurs. Here I determined to plunge, and was just 
upon the brink, when I found myself suddenly drawn back. 
I turned about, and was surprised by the sight of the loveliest 
object I had ever beheld. The most engaging charms of youth 
and beauty appeared in all her form ; elFulgent glories sparkled in 
her eyes, and their awful splendors were softened by the gentlest 
looks of compassion and peace. At her approach, the fright- 
ful spectre, who had before tormented me, vanished away; and 
with her all the horrors she had caused. The gloomy clouds 
brightened into cheerful sunshine, the groves recovered their ver- 
dure, and the whole region looked gay and blooming as the garden 
of Eden. I was quite transported at this unexpected change; and 
reviving pleasure began to glad my thoughts, when, with a look of 
inexpressible sweetness, my beauteous deliverer thus uttered her 
divine instructions : — 

'^ My name is Religion. I am the ofiFspring of Truth and Love, 
and the parent of Benevolence, Hope, and Joy. That monster, 
from whose power I have freed you, is called Superstition ; she is 
the child of Discontent, and her followers are Fear and Sorrow. 
Thus different as we are, she has often the insolence to assume my 
name and character, and seduces unhappy mortals to think us the 
same, till she, at length, drives them to the borders of Despair, 
that dreadful abyss into which you were just going to sink. 

^^Look round and survey the various beauties of the globe, 
which Heaven has destined for the seat of the human race, and 
consider whether a world thus exquisitely framed could be meant 
for the abode of misery and pain. For what end has the lavish 
hand of Providence diffused such innumerable objects of delight, 
but that all might rejoice in the privilege of existence, and be 
filled with gratitude to the beneficent Author of it? Thus to 
enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue and obedience; and to 
reject them merely as means of pleasure, is pitiable ignorance, or 
absurd perverseness. Infinite goodness is the source of created 
existence ; the proper tendency of every rational being, from the 
highest order of raptured seraphs, to the meanest rank of man, is 
to rise incessantly from lower degrees of happiness to higher. 
They have each faculties assigned them for various orders of de- 
lights." 

" What," cried T, " is this the language of Religion ? Does 
she lead her votaries through flowery paths, and bid them pass an 
unlaborious life ? Where are the painful toils of virtue, the mor- 



68 CARTER. [GEORGE III. 

tifications of penitents, the self-denying exercises of saints and 
heroes ?'^ 

" The true enjoyments of a reasonable being," answered she 
mildly, "do not consist in unbounded indulgence, or luxurious 
ease ; in the tumult of passions, the languor of indolence, or the 
flutter of light amusements. Yielding to immoral pleasure cor- 
rupts the mind, living to animal and trifling ones debases it ; both 
in their degree disqualify it for its genuine good, and consign it 
over to wretchedness. Whoever would be really happy, must 
make the diligent and regular exercise of his superior powers his 
chief attention, adoring the perfections of his Maker, expressing 
good-will to his fellow-creatures, and cultivating inward rectitude. 
To his lower faculties he must allow such gratifications as will, 
by refreshing him, invigorate his nobler pursuits. In the regions 
inhabited by angelic natures, unmingled felicity forever blooms, 
joy flows there with a perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs 
there any mound to check its course. * * * 

" To him who is animated with a view of obtaining approba- 
tion from the Sovereign of the universe, no difficulty is insur- 
mountable. Secure in this pursuit of every needful aid, his con- 
flict with the severest pains and trials is little more than the 
vigorous exercise of a mind in health. His patient dependence 
on that Providence which looks through all eternity, his silent 
resignation, his ready accommodation of his thoughts and beha- 
vior to its inscrutable ways, is at once the most excellent sort of 
self-denial, and a source of the most exalted transports. Society 
is the true sphere of human virtue. In social, active life, diffi- 
culties will perpetually be met with; restraints of many kinds 
will be necessary ; and studying to behave right in respect of 
these, is a discipline of the human heart, useful to others, and 
improving to itself. Suff'ering is no duty, but where it is neces- 
sary to avoid guilt, or to do good; nor pleasure a crime, but where 
it strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or lessens the 
generous activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to man in his 
present state is indeed faint and low, compared with his immortal 
prospects, and noble capacities; but yet whatever portion of 
it the distributing hand of Heaven ofiers to each individual, is a 
needful support and refreshment for the present moment, so far 
as it may not hinder the attaining of his final destination. 

" Return then with me from continual misery to moderate en- 
joyment and grateful alacrity. Return from the contracted views 
of solitude to the proper duties of a relative and dependent being. 
Religion is hot confined to cells and closets, nor restrained to sul- 
len retirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of Superstition, 



1760-1820.] CARTER. 69 

by which she endeavors to break those chains of benevolence and 
social affection that link the welfare of every particular with that 
of the whole. Remember that the greatest honor you can pay to 
the Author of your being is by such a cheerful behavior as dis- 
covers a mind satisfied with his dispensations.""' 

Here my preceptress paused, and I was going to express my 
acknowledgments for her discourse, when a ring of bells from the 
neighboring village, and a new-risen sun darting his beams through 
my windows, awakened me. 



ODE TO WISDOM. 

The solitary bird of night 

Through the pale shades now wings his flight, 

And quits the time-shook tower 
Where, shelter'd from the blaze of day, 
In philosophic gloom he lay 

Beneath his ivy bower. 

With joy I hear the solemn sound 
Which midnight echoes waft around, 

And sighing gales repeat: 
Fav'rite of Pallas !' I attend. 
And faithful to thy summons bend, 

At Wisdom's awful seat. 

She loves the cool, the silent eve, 
Where no false shows of life deceive, 

Beneath the lunar ray: 
Here Folly drops each vain disguise. 
Nor sports her gaily-color'd dyes 

As in the glare of day. 

O ! Pallas, queen of every art 

That glads the sense, or mends the heart, 

Bless'd source of purer joys ; 
In every form of beauty bright, 
That captivates the mental sight 

With pleasure and surprise ; 

To thine unspotted shrine I bow; 
Assist thy modest suppliant's vow. 

That breathes no wild desires: 
But taught, by thy unerring rules. 
To shun the fruitless wish of fools, 

To nobler views aspires. 

Not fortune's gem, ambition's plume, 
Not Cytherea's^ fading bloom. 
Be objects of my prayer : 

Minerva, the goddess of wisdom. ^ Venus. 

7* 



70 CARTER. [GEORGE HI. 

Let avarice, vanity, and pride. 
These glittering, envied toys divide, 
The dull rewards of care : 

To me thy better gifts impart, 
Each moral beauty of the heart, 

By studious thought refined : 
For wealth, the smiles of glad content ; 
For power, its amplest, best extent, 

An empire o'er my mind. 

When fortune drops her gay parade, 
When pleasure's transient roses fade. 

And wither in the tomb, 
Unchanged is thy immortal prize. 
Thy ever-verdant laurels rise 

In undecaying bloom. 

By thee protected, I defy 

The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid lie 

Of ignorance and spite ; 
Alike contemn the leaden fool. 
And all the pointed ridicule 

Of undiscerning wit. 

From envy, hurry, noise, and strife. 
The dull impertinence of life, 

In thy retreat I rest ; 
Pursue thee to thy peaceful groves, 
Where Plato's sacred spirit roves. 

In all thy graces dress'd. 

He bade Ilissus'^ tuneful stream 
Convey the philosophic theme 

Of perfect, fair, and good : 
Attentive Athens caught the sound. 
And all her listening sons around 

In awful silence stood. 

Reclaim'd, her wild licentious youth 
Confess'd the potent voice of truth. 

And felt its just control ; 
The passions ceased their loud alarms, 
And virtue's soft, persuasive charms 

O'er all their senses stole. 

Thy breath inspires the poet's song. 
The patriot's free unbiass'd tongue. 

The hero's generous strife ; 
Thine are retirement's silent joys. 
And all the sweet, endearing ties 

Of still, domestic life ! 

» A small stream near Athens. 



1760-1820.] WHITE. 71 

No more to fabled names confined, 
To thee, Supreme, All-perfect Mind, 

My thoughts direct their flight; 
Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force 
From thee derived, unchanging source 

Of intellectual light ! 

O! send her sure, her steady ray, 
To regulate my doubtful way 

Through life's perplexing road ; 
The mists of error to control, 
And through its gloom direct my soul 

To happiness and good ! 

Beneath her clear discerning eye, 
The visionary shadows fly, 

Of folly's painted show ; 
She sees, through every fair disguise, 
That all, but virtue's solid joys. 

Is vanity and woe. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 1785—1806. 

" Unhappy White ! while life was in its spring. 
And thy young Mvise just waved her joyous wing. 
The spoiler came — and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone. 
When science' self destroyed her favorite son! 
Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
She sowed the seeds — but death has reaped the fruit, 
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow. 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
Yiew'd his own feather on the fatal dart 
That wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart: 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nurs'd the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast." 

So sang Lord Byron of that most gifted youth, Henry Kirke White, 
whose sincere and ardent piety was equalled only by his genius, his learning, 
and his uncommon ardor in the pursuit of knowledge. Had Byron pos- 
sessed the moral and Christian principles of him whom he thus most beauti- 
fully eulogizes, what English poef would have stood before him — what one 



72 WHITE. [GEORGE III. 

would have exerted a more happy influence — what one would have been 
more the delight of the wise and the good ? As it is, the consideration of 
what Byron's character was will ever be a great drawback from the feel- 
ings of pleasure which his poems would otherwise have inspired. 

Henry Kirke White, the son of John White, a butcher of Notting- 
ham, was born at that place on the 21st of March, 1785. From his very 
early years he showed a strong thirst for knowledge, and at the age of 
seven tried his hand at prose composition. About this time, he was put 
to a school in his native place, where he greatly distinguished himself among 
his juvenile companions. He learned the rudiments of mathematics and 
the French language, and displayed wonderful powers of acquisition. 
His father intended to bring him up to his own business ; and one whole 
day in every week, and his leisure hours on other days, were employed in 
carrying the butcher's basket. But this proved so irksome to him that, 
at the request of his mother, he was apprenticed to a stocking weaver, to 
prepare himself for the hosiery line. This proved scarcely more satisfac- 
tory than his former occupation ; and, after a year, his mother found means 
to place him in the office of Coldham & Enfield, attorneys of Nottingham. 
He devoted himself with steadiness to his profession during the day, and 
passed his evenings in learning the Latin, Greek, and Italian languages ; 
together with chemistry, astronomy, drawing, and music. To these ac- 
quirements he soon added practical mechanics. A London magazine, called 
the "Monthly Preceptor," having proposed prize themes for the youth 
of both sexes, Henry became a candidate, and while only in his fifteenth 
year obtained a silver medal for a translation from Horace, and the next 
year a pair of twelve inch globes for an imaginary tour from London to 
Edinburgh. 

In 1803, appeared a volume of his poems. The statement in the preface 
that they were written by a youth of seventeen, and published to enable him 
to get the means to aid him in his studies, should have disarmed the severity 
of criticism; yet the poems were contemptuously noticed in the " Monthly 
Review," This treatment Henry felt most keenly. But the book fell into 
the hands of Mr, Southey, who most kindly and generously wrote to the 
young poet to encourage him ; and very soon friends sprung up who enabled 
him to pursue the great object of his ambition— admission to the University 
of Cambridge, Hitherto his religious opinions had inclined to Deism ; but 
a friend having put into his hands " Scott's Force of Truth," an entire change 
was wrought thereby in his whole character, A most decided and earnest 
piety now became his prominent characteristic, and he resolved to devote 
his life to the cause of religion, and with great zeal entered upon the study 
of divinity, in connection with his other studies. His application indeed 
was so intense that a severe illness was the result ; on his recovery from 
which, he produced those beautiful lines written in Milford churchyard. 

In the latter part of 1804, his long-delayed hopes of entering the univer- 
sity were about to be gratified. "I can now inform you," he writes to a 
friend, "that I have reason to believe my way through college is close be- 
fore me. From what source I know not; but, through the hands of Mr. 



1760-1820.] WHITE. 73 

Simeon, I am provided with thirty pounds per annum, and I can command 
twenty or thirty more from my friends, in all probability, until I take my 
degree. The friends to whom I allude are my mother and brother." Poetry 
was now abandoned for severer studies. He competed for one of the univer- 
sity scholarships, and at the end of the term was pronounced the first man 
of his year. Twice he distinguished himself in the following year, was again 
pronounced first at the great college examination, and also one of the three 
best theme writers, between whom the examiners could not decide. But 
this distinction was purchased at the sacrifice of health, and ultimately of 
life. Of this, he himself was sensible. " Were I," he writes to a friend, 
" to paint a picture of Fame crowning a distinguished undergraduate, after 
the senate- house examination, I would represent her as concealing a death's 
head under a mask of beauty." He went to London to recruit his shat- 
tered nerves and spirits ; but it was too late. He returned to his college, 
renewed his studies with unabated ardor, and sank under the effort. 
Nature was at length overcome; he grew delirious, and died on the 19th of 
October, 1806, in his twenty- first year. 

Thus fell, a victim to his own genius, one whose abilities and acquire- 
ments were not more conspicuous than his moral and social excellence. " It 
is not possible," says Southey,' " to conceive a human being more amiable 
in all the relations of life. "^ And again : " Repossessed as pure a heart as 
ever it pleased the Almighty to warm with life." Of his fervent piety, his 
letters, his prayers, and his hymns will afford ample and interesting proof. 
It was in him a living and quickening principle of goodness, which sancti- 
fied all his hopes and all his affections ; which made him keep watch over 
his own heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms, which it ever 
displayed, of human imperfection. 

With regard to his poems, the same good judge observes, "Chatterton 
is the only youthful poet whom he does not leave far behind him ;" and, in 
alluding to some of his papers, handed to him for perusal after the death of 
this gifted youth, he observes, "I have inspected all the existing manu- 
scripts of Chatterton, and they excited less wonder than these." 

* The " Remains of Henry Kirke White, with an Account of his Life," by 
Robert Southey, 2 vols. 

» " What an amazing reach of genius appears in the 'Remains of Henry 
Kirke White !' How unfortvmate that he should have been lost to the world 
almost as soon as known. I greatly lament the circumstances that forced him 
to studies so contrary to his natural talent." — Sir E. Brydges, ' ' Censura Lite- 
raria," vol. ix. p. 393. Again, this same discriminating critic says, "There 
are, I think, among these ' Remains,' a few of the most exquisite pieces in 
the whole body of English poetry. Conjoined with an easy and flowing fancy, 
they possess the charm of a peculiar moral delicacy, often conveyed in a 
happy and inimitable simplicity of language." 



74 WHITE. [GEORaE III. 



SONNET IN HIS SICKNESS. 

Yes, 'twill be over soon. — This sickly dream 

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; 
And death my wearied spirit will redeem 

From this wild region of unvaried pain. 
Yon brook will glide as softly as before — 

Yon landscape smile — yon golden harvest grow- 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar 

When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress — 

They laugh in health, and future evils brave; 
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, 

While I am mould'ring in my silent grave. 
God of the just — Thou gav'st the bitter cup; 
J bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 



SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. 

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head. 

Consumption, lay thine hand! — let me decay, 
Like the expiring lamp, unseen away. 

And softly go to slumber with the dead. 

And if 'tis true, what holy men have said, 
That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, 

O let the aerial music round my bed, 

Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear, 

That I may bid my weeping friends good-bye 
Ere I depart upon my journey drear: 

And, smiling faintly on the painful past. 

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 



SOLITUDE. 

It is not that my lot is low. 
That bids this silent tear to flow ; 
It is not grief that bids me moan, 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam. 
When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest. 
When the pale star looks on its breast. 



1760-1820.] WHITE. 75 

Yet, when tlie silent evening sighs 
With hallow 'd airs and symphonieSj 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone." 

The autunnn leaf is sear and dead, 
It floats upon the water's bed : 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 

The woods and winds, with sullen wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale; 
I've none to smile when I am free, 
And when I sigh to sigh with me ! 

Yet, in my dreams, a form I view 
That thinks on me, and loves me too: 
I start, and when the vision 's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone. 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guisej 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And, round my brow resign'd, thy peaceless cypress twine 

Though Fancy flies away 

Before thy hollow tread. 
Yet Meditation, in her cell. 
Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell 
That tells her hopes are dead; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear. 
Yet she can smile, and say, " My all was not laid here." 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven. 
For thou severe wert sent from heaven 
To wean me from the world: 
To turn my eye 
From vanity. 
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die, 

What is this passing scene 1 
A peevish April day! 



76 WHITE. [GEORGE III. 

A little sun — a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust, 
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 

O, what is beauty's power ? 

It flourishes and dies; 
Will the cold earth its silence break, 
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies ? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er Beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 

The most belov'd on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete — 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet ; 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade, 
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 

Then, since this world is vain, 

And volatile, and fleet, 
Why should I lay up earthly joys, 
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys. 
And cares and sorrows eat? 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still ? 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad monitress! I own thy sway ; 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee : 
From sun to sun 
My race will run ; 
I only bow, and say, " My God, thy will be done !" 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild ofispring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 

Was nursed in whirling storms, 

And cradled in the winds; 

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway. 
And dared the sturdy blust'rer to the fight, 

Thee on this bank he threw, 

To mark his victory. 



1760-1820.] WHITE. 77 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

■Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head. 

Obscure and" unobserved; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 

When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky. 

One star alone, of all the train, 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks 
From every host, from every gem ; 

But one alone the Saviour speaks — 
It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Once on the raging seas I rode ; 

The storm was loud — the night was dark; 
The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed 

The wind that tossed my foundering bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze — 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem — 

When suddenly a star arose: 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 
It bade my dark forebodings cease; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moored — my perils o'er — 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 

Forever and forevermore. 

The Star— the Star of Bethlehem ! 



A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 



O Lord ! another day is flown. 
And we, a lonely band, 



78 AVHITE. [GEORGE UI. 

Are met once more before thy throne, 
To bless thy fostering hand. 

And wilt thou bend a list'ning ear 

To praises low as ours? 
Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear 

The song which meekness pours. 

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign, 

As we before thee pray ; 
For thou didst bless the infant train, 

And we are less than they. 

let thy grace perform its part, 

And let contention cease! 
And shed abroad in every heart 

Thine everlasting peace ! 

Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine, 

A jflock by Jesus led, 
The Sun of Holiness shall shine 

In glory on our head. 

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 

And thou wilt bless our way, 
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 

The dawn of lasting day ! 



TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 

Blest as you are with the good testimony of an approving con- 
science, and happy in an intimate communion with the all-pure, 
and all-merciful God, these trifling concerns ought not to molest 
you; nay, were the tide of adversity to turn strong against you, even 
were your friends to forsake you, and abject poverty to stare you 
in the face, you ought to be abundantly thankful to God for his 
mercies to you ; you ought to consider yourself still as rich, yea, 
to look around you, and say, I am far happier than the sons of 
men. This is a system of philosophy which, for myself, I shall 
not only preach, but practice. We are here for nobler purposes 
than to waste the fleeting moments of our lives in lamentations 
•and wailings over troubles which, in their widest extent, do but 
affect the present state, and which, perhaps, only regard our per- 
sonal ease and prosperity. Make me an outcast — a beggar; place 
me a barefooted pilgrim on the top of the Alps or the Pyrenees; 
and I should have wherewithal to sustain the spirit within me, in 
the reflection that all this was but as for a moment, and that a 
period would come when wrong, and injury, and trouble should 
be no more. Are we to be so utterly enslaved by habit and asso- 



1760-1820.] WHITE. 79 

ciation that we shall spend our lives in anxiety and bitter care, 
only that we may find a covering for our bodies, or the means of 
assuaging hunger ? For what else is an anxiety after the world ? 

Letter to Mr. B, Maddock. 



ADVICE TO THE YOUNG. 

I would therefore exhort you earnestly — you who are yet un- 
skilled in the ways of the world — to beware on what object you 
concentrate your hopes. Pleasures may allure — pride or ambition 
may stimulate ; but their fruits are hollow and deceitful, and they 
afford no sure, no solid satisfaction. You are placed on the earth 
in a state of probation — your continuance here will be, at the 
longest, a very short period; and when you are called from hence 
you plunge into an eternity, the completion of which will be in 
correspondence to your past life, unutterably happy or inconceiva- 
bly miserable. Your fate will probably depend on your early pur- 
suits — it will be these which will give the turn to your character 
and to your pleasures. I. beseech you, therefore, with a meek and 
lowly spirit, to read the pages of that book which the wisest and 
best of men have acknowledged to be the word of God. You will 
there find a rule of moral conduct such as the world never had 
any idea of before its divulgation. If you covet earthly happiness, 
it is only to be found in the path you will find there laid down ; 
and I can confidently promise you, in a life of simplicity and purity, 
a life passed in accordance with the divine word, such substantial 
bliss, such unruffled peace, as is nowhere else to be found. All 
other schemes of earthly pleasure are fleeting and unsatisfactory. 
They all entail upon them repentance and bitterness of thought. 
This alone endureth for ever ; this alone embraces equally the pre- 
sent and the future; this alone can arm a man against every 
calamity — can alone shed the balm of peace over that scene of life 
when pleasures have lost their zest, and the mind can no longer 
look forward to the dark and mysterious future. Above all, be- 
ware of the ignis fatims of false philosophy : that must be a very 
defective system of ethics which will not bear a man through the 
most trying stage of his existence; and I know of none that will 
do it but the Christian. 



80 SEWARD. [GEORGE III. 



ANNA SEWARD, 1747—1809. 

Anna Seward, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Seward, of Litchfield, was 
born in the year 1747. In her very early childhood, she showed a great 
passion for poetry ; but her mother, who had no taste for it, and who had 
a dread lest her daughter should be a " literary lady," persuaded her hus- 
band to forbid Anna from pursuing the natural bent of her genius. Poetry, 
therefore, was prohibited ; and, to her praise, she sacrificed her own §trong 
and decided tastes to the inclination of her parents. At the age of seven- 
teen, she lost her only sister, a bereavement which she felt most keenly, 
and which she subsequently made the subject of an elegy. The blank in 
her domestic society was, however, in a degree supplied by the attachment 
of Miss Honora Sneyd,^ then residing in her father's family, whom she 
often mentions in her poetry. 

When of age to select her own studies, she became a professed votary 
of the Muse, and she was known by the name of the " Swan of Litchfield." 
Among her first publications was " An Elegy to the Memory of Captain 
Cook," and " A Monody on the Death of Major Andre." From the nature 
of the subjects, they enjoyed great popularity for the time, but are now very 
little read, though Sir Waher Scott^ says that "they convey a high im- 
pression of the original powers of their author." In 1799, she published a 
" Collection of Original Sonnets," which contain some beautiful examples 
of that species of composition. After this she did not publish any large 
poem ; yet she continued to pour forth her poetical eff'usions upon such 
occasions as interested her feelings, or excited her imagination. She died 
on the 23d of March, 1809, having bequeathed, by will, to Sir Walter 
Scott, with whom for many years she had corresponded, the copyright of 
her poems and letters, with a request that he would superintend their pub- 
lication. 

Of her character and her poetry, a distinguished critic' thus speaks : 
" She was endowed with considerable genius, and with an ample portion 
of that fine enthusiasm which sometimes may be mistaken for it ; but her 
taste was far from good, and her numerous productions (a few excepted) 
are disfigured by florid ornament and elaborate magnificence." 



THE ANNIVERSARY. 

Ah, lovely Litchfield! that so long hast shone 
In blended charms, peculiarly thine own ; 

*■ She v^as the object of Major Andre's attachment, and afterwards be- 
came Mrs. Edgeworth. 

^ Read the Biographical Preface of Sir Walter Scott to his edition of Miss 
Seward's Poetical Works, 3 vols., Edinburgh, 1810. 

^ Rev. Alexander Dyce, in his " Specimens of British Poetesses." 



1760-1820.] SEWARD. 81 

Stately, yet rural ; thro' thy choral day, 
Tho' shady, cheerful, and tho' quiet, gay; 
How interesting, how loved, from year to year. 
How more than beauteous did thy scenes appear! 
Still, as the mild Spring chas'd the wintry gloom, 
Devolv'd her leaves, and wak'd her rich perfume. 
Thou, when thy fields and groves around thee spread, 
Lift'st, in unlessen'd grace, thy spiry head ; 
But many a lov'd inhabitant of thine 
Sleeps where no vernal sun will ever shine. 

Why fled ye all so fast, ye happy hours. 
That saw Honora's eyes adorn these bowers? 
These darling bowers, that much she lov'd to hail — 
The spires she called " the Ladies of the Vale !" 

Fairest, and best! — Oh ! can I e'er forget 
To thy dear kindness my eternal debt"? 
Life's opening paths hov7 tenderly it smooth'd. 
The joys it heighten'd, and the pains it sooth'd ? 
No, no! my heart its sacred memory bears. 
Bright mid the shadows of o'erwhelming years; 
When mists of deprivation round me roll, 
'Tis the soft sunbeam of my clouded soul. 

Ah, dear Honora ! that remember'd day, 
First on these eyes when shone thy early ray ! 
Scarce o'er my head twice seven gay springs had gone, 
Scarce five o'er thy unconscious childhood flown, 
When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant frame 
To our glad walls a happy inmate came. 
O summer morning of unrivall'd light! 
Fate wrapt thy rising in prophetic white! 
June, the bright month, when nature joys to wear 
The livery of the gay, consummate year. 
Gave that envermeil'd day-spring all her powers, 
Gemm'd the light leaves, and glow'd upon the flowers; 
Bade her plum'd nations hail the rosy ray 
With warbled orisons from every spray. 
Purpureal Tempo, not to thee belong 
More poignant fragrance, or more jocund song. 
* * * # 

*Twas eve ; — the sun, in setting glory drest. 
Spread his gold skirts along the crimson west ; 
A Sunday's eve! — Honora, bringing thee. 
Friendship's soft Sabbath long it rose to me, 
When on the wing of circling seasons borne, 
Annual I hail'd its consecrated morn. 

In the kind interchange of mutual thought, 
Our home myself and gentle sister sought; 
Our pleasant home,^ round which th' ascending gale 
Breathes all the freshness of the sloping vale; 

' The bishop's palace at Litchfield. 

8* 



82 SEWARD. [GEORGE III. 

On her green verge the spacious walls arise, 
View her fair fields, and catch her balmy sighs ; 
See her near hills the bounded prospect close, 
And her blue lake in glassy breadth repose. 

With arms entwin'd, and smiling as we talk'd, 
To the maternal room we careless walk'd, 
"Where sat its honor'd mistress, and with smile 
Of love indulgent, from a floral pile 
The gayest glory of the summer bower 
CuU'd for the new-arriv'd — the human flower, 
A lovely infant girl, who pensive stood 
Close to her knees, and charm'd us as we view'd. 

O! hast thou mark'd the Summer's budded rose, 
When mid the veiling moss its crimson glows? 
So bloom'd the beauty of that fairy form ; 
So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm, 
Play'd round the timid curve of that white neck, 
And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek. 
O ! hast thou seen the star of eve on high, 
Thro' the soft dusk of Summer's balmy sky, 
Shed its green light,' and in the glassy stream 
Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam ? 
So look'd on us with tender, bashful gaze, 
The destin'd charmer of our youthful days ; 
Whose soul its native elevation join'd 
To the gay wildness of the infant mind, 
Esteem and sacred confidence impressed. 
While our fond arms the beauteous child caress'd. 
Dear Sensibility ! how soon thy glow 
Dy'd that fair cheek, and gleam'd from that young brow ! 
How early. Generosity, you taught 
The warm disdain of every grovelling thought ; 
Round sweet Honora, e'en in infant youth, 
Shed the majestic light of spotless truth ; 
Bid her for others' sorrow pour the tear. 
For others' safety feel th' instinctive fear ; 
But for herself, scorning the impulse weak. 
Meet every danger with unaltering cheek ; 
And thro' the generally unmeaning years 
Of heedless childhood, to thy guardian cares. 
Angelic Friendship, her young moments give, 
And, heedless of herself, for others live. 

' " The lustre of the brightest of the stars (says Miss Seward, in a note on 
her ninety-third Sonnet) always appeared to me of a green hue ; and they 
are so described by Ossian." 



1760-1820.] SEWARD. 

SONNET. 
December Morning, 1782. 

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, 

Winter's pale dawn; and as warm fires illume, 
And cheerful tapers shine around the room. 

Thro' misty windows bend my musing sight, 

Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white, 
With shutters clos'd, peer faintly through the gloom 
That slow recedes ; while yon gray spires assume, 

Rising from their dark pile, an added height 

By indistinctness given. — Then to decree 

The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 

To Friendship, or the Muse, or seek with glee 

Wisdom's rich page: hours! more worth than gold. 

By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free 
From drear decays of age, outlive the old ! 

THE GRAVE OF YOUTH. 

When life is hurried to untimely close, ^ 

In the years of crystal eyes and burnish'd hair, 

Dire are the thoughts of death ; — eternal parting 

From all the precious soul's yet known delights, 

All she had clung to here ; — from youth and hope. 

And the year's blossom'd April; — bounding strength. 

Which had out-leap'd the Toes, when morning suns 

Yellow'd their forest glade ; — from reaper's shout 

And cheerful swarm of populous towns ; — from Time, 

Which tells of joys forepast, and jDromises 

The dear return of seasons, and the bliss 

Crowning a fruitful marriage ; — from the stores 

Of well-engrafted knowledge; — from all utterance. 

Since, in the silent grave, no talk! — no music! — 

No gay surprise, by unexpected good. 

Social, or individual! — no glad step 

Of welcome friend, with more intenseness listen'd 

Than warbled melody! — no father's counsel! — 

No mother's smile! — no lover's whispered vow! — 

There nothing breathes save the insatiate worm. 

And nothing is, but the drear altering corse. 

Resolving silently to shapeless dust, 

In unpierc'd darkness and in black oblivion. 



84 SMITH. [GEORGE III. 



CHARLOTTE SMITH, J 749— 1806. 

Mrs. Charlotte Smith was the daughter of Nicholas Turner, Esq., of 
Stoke House, Surrey. Her father possessed another house at Bignor Park, 
on the banks of the Arun,' where she passed many of her earliest years ; of 
which she speaks in the following beautiful stanza : — ■ 

Then, from thy wilJwood banks, Aruna, roving. 
Thy thymy downs with sportive steps I sought, 

And Nature's charnns with artless transport loving, 
Sung, like the birds, unheeded and untaught. 

"How enchanting must have been the day-dreams of a mind thus en- 
dowed, in the early season of youth and hope ! Amid scenery which had 
nursed the fancies of Otway and of Collins, she trod on sacred ground: 
every charm of Nature seems to have made the most lively and distinct im- 
pression on her very vivid mind ; and her rich imagination must have peopled 
it with beings of another world."^ 

From a very early age she had an insatiable thirst for reading, and devoured 
almost every book that fell in her way. From her twelfth to her fifteenth 
year, her father resided occasionally in London, and she was, while still a 
child, introduced into society. She lost her mother when quite young, and 
when her fathea»was about to form a second marriage, the friends of the young 
poetess made efforts, most foolishly, to "establish her in life," as it is called, 
and induced her to accept the hand of a Mr. Smith, the son and partner of a 
rich West India merchant. She was then but sixteen, and her husband 
twenty-one years of age. It was a most ill- advised and rash union, and pro- 
ductive of the most unhappy results. The first years of her marriage she 
lived in London, which was not at all congenial to her tastes. Subsequently 
her father in-law purchased for her husband, who was negligent of his busi- 
ness in the city, a farm in Hampshire. Here if possible, he did worse, 
keeping too large an establishment, and entering into injudicious and wild 
speculations. She foresaw the storm that was gathering, but had no power 
to prevent it. 

In 1776, Mrs. Smith's father died. A few years after this event, her hus- 
band's affairs were brought to a crisis, and he was imprisoned for debt. With 
great fortitude and devoted constancy she accompanied him, and by her un- 
tiring exertions was enabled to procure his release. During his confine- 
ment, she collected her sonnets and other poems for publication. They 
were much admired, and passed through no less than eleven editions. In 
the following letter, she describes, most graphically, 

' The Arun is a river of Sussex county, on the southern coast of England. 
2 Read a most genial sketch of her liJfe in Sir Egerton Brydges' "Censura 
Literaria," vol. viii. p. 239; and another in his <' Imaginative Biography." 



1760-1820.] SMITH. 85 



HER HUSBAND S LIBERATION. 

^^It was on the 2d day of July that we commenced our journey. 
For more than a month I had shared the restraint of my husband, 
in a prison, amidst scenes of misery, of vice, and even of terror. 
Two attempts had, since my last residence among them, been made 
by the prisoners to procure their liberation, by blowing up the 
walls of the house. Throughout the night appointed for this 
enterprise, I remained dressed, watching at the window, and ex- 
pecting every moment to witness contention and bloodshed, or 
perhaps be overwhelmed by the projected explosion. After such 
scenes, and such apprehensions, how deliciously soothing to my 
wearied spirits was the soft, pure air of the summer's morning, 
breathing over the dewy grass, as (having slept one night on the 
road) we passed over the heaths of Surrey ! My native hills at 
length burst upon my view ! I beheld once more the fields where 
I had passed my happiest days, and amidst the perfumed turf with 
which one of those fields was strown, perceived with delight the 
beloved group from whom I had been so long divided, and for 
whose fate my afiections were ever anxious. The transports of 
this meeting were too much for my exhausted spirits. After all 
my sufferings, I began to hope I might taste content, or experience 
at least a respite from my calamities V 

But this state of happiness did not long continue. Mr. Smith's hberty 
was again threatened, and he went to France. His wife and their eight 
children accompanied him, and they spent an anxious and forlorn winter in 
Normandy. The next year she returned to England, and by her great and 
persevering exertions, enabled her husband to follow her. They hired a 
mansion at Wolbeding, in Sussex, a parish of which Otway's' father had 
been rector. Here she wrote her twenty-sixth Sonnet : — 



TO THE RIVER ARUN. 

" On thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn, 
No glittering fanes or marble domes appear; 

Yet shall the mournful Muse thy course adorn, 
And still to her thy rustic waves be dear ! 

For with the infant Otway, lingering here, 
Of early woes she bade her votary dream — 

» Thomas Otway (1651—1685), the celebrated dramatic poet, author of the 
Orphan," and "Venice Preserved." 



86 SMITH. [GEORGE III. 

While thy low murmurs sooth'd his pensive ear; 

And still the poet consecrates the stream. 
Beneath the oak and beech, that fringe thy side, 

The first-born violets of the year shall spring; 
And in thy hazels, bending o'er the tide, 

The earliest nightingale delight to sing: 
While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate 
Thy Otw^ay's sorrows, and lament his fate !" 

It now became necessary for her to exert her faculties as a means of sup- 
port, and she translated two or three stories from the French. Her husband 
being again obliged to leave the country, she removed with her children to 
a small cottage in another part of Sussex, and, while residing here, pub- 
lished a new edition of her Sonnets, with additions. She then tried her 
powers in another line of literature, and in 1788 gave to the public her 
"Emmeline, or the Orphan of the Castle," which novel was exceeding- 
ly popular. In the following year, she published anoiher novel, entitled 
" Ethelinde ;" and to this succeeded, in very rapid succession, " Celestina," 
"Desmond," "The Old Manor House," "The Wanderings of War- 
wick," "The Banished Man," " Montalbert," and others, besides seve- 
ral beautiful little volumes for young persons, entitled, "Rural Walks," 
"Rambles Farther," "Minor Morals;" — in all about forty volumes I 
During all this time, she suffered severe family afflictions, in the loss of 
three children, as well as pecuniary trials in the adjustment of her husband's 
affairs. But the hour was arriving when grief was to subdue this long- tried 
victim. Her husband, it is said, died in legal confinement in March, 1806; 
and on the 28th of October following, she died herself, after a lingering 
and painful illness, which she bore with the utmost patience, retaining her 
faculties to the last. 

As a poetess, Charlotte Smith has been excelled by few of her country- 
women. Her Sonnets are " most musical, most melancholy, and abound 
with touches of tenderness, grace, and beauty ; and her descriptions of rural 
scenery are particularly fresh and vivid." "But while we allow," says Sir 
Walter Scott, " high praise to the sweet and sad effusions of Mrs. Smith's 
muse, we cannot admit that by these alone she could ever have risen to the 
height of eminence which we are disposed to claim for her for her prose 
narratives." But, however this might have been during her life, and when 
Walter Scott included her in his library of British Novelists, Charlotte 
Smith is now most known and valued for her poetry. 



SONNET — TO THE MOON. 

Queen of the silver bow ! by thy pale beam, 
Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, 

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, 
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way 

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light 
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast; 



1760-1820.] SMITH. 87 

And oft I tliink, fair planet of the night, 

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest : 

The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, 
Releas'd by death* to thy benignant sphere, 

And the sad children of despair and woe 
Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. 

Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene, 

Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene ! 



SONNET — ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! 
Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew. 

And pour thy music on the night"s dull ear. 
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, 

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 
The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate. 

And still protect the song she loves so well. 
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 

Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest ; 
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide 

The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
For still thy voice shall soft affections move. 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 



SONNET — THE HAPPINESS OF CHILDHOOD. 

Sighing, I see yon little troop at play. 

By sorrow yet untouched, unhurt by care, ^ 

While free and sportive they enjoy to-day, 

" Content and careless of to-morrow's fare." 
O happy age ! when Hope's unclouded ray 

Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, 
Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay 

To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, 
Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, 

And threw them on a world so full of pain. 
Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth. 

And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain ! 
Ah ! for their future fate how many fears 
Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears ! 



ENGLISH SCENERY. 

I once was happy, when, while yet a child, 
I learn'd to love these upland solitudes, 



88 SMITH. [GEORGE III. 

And when, elastic as the mountain air, 

To my light spirit care was yet unknown, 

An evil unforeseen ; — early it came, 

And childhood scarcely past, I was condemn'd, 

A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, 

While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew 

The contrast ; and regretting, I compar'd. 

With the polluted smoky atmosphere 

And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills 

That, to the setting sun their graceful heads 

Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks 

With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide. 

When western w inds the vast Atlantic urge 

To thunder on the coast. Haunts of my youth ! 

Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! 

Where 'twas so pleasant, by thy northern slopes, 

To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 

By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore 

Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb 

There seeking shelter from the noonday sun : 

And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, 

To look beneath upon the hollow way 

While heavily upward mov'd the laboring wain. 

And, stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind. 

To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone 

The grating wheel. 

Advancing higher still, 
The prospect widens, and the village church 
But little o'er the lowly roofs around 
Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane ; 
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal 'd 
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring, 
When on each bough the rosy-tinctur'd bloom 
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
For even those orchards round the Norman farms, 
Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit, 
Console them for the vineyards of the south, 
Surpass not these. 

Where woods of ash, and beech. 
And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, 
The upland shepherd rears his modest home ; 
There wanders by a little nameless stream. 
That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, 
Or, after rain, with chalky mixture gray, 
But still refreshing in its shallow course 
The cottage garden ; most for use design'd. 
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 
Mantles the little casement; yet the brier 
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; 
And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks 
Grow among balm, and rosemary, and rue; 
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow 



1760-1820.] TiGHE. 89 

Almost uncultur'd: some with dark green leaves 
Contrasrtheir flowers of pure unsullied white; 
Others like velvet robes of regal state 
Of richest crimson, while, in thorny moss 
Enshrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear 
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. — 
With fond regret I recollect, e'en now, 
In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt 
Among these cottage gardens, and how much 
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 
By village housewife or her ruddy maid, 
Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleas'd. 
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, 
I lov'd her rudest scenes. 

From '■^Beachy Head,^' a Poem. 



MARY TIGHE, 1774—1810. 

Mrs. Mary Ti&he was the daughter of the Rev. William Blackford, of 
the county of Wicklow, Ireland. Her history seems to be but little known 
to the public, as I have tried in vain to find some account of her; but her 
early death, after six years of protracted suffering, has been commemorated 
by Moore, in a most beautiful lyric' 

Mrs. Tighe is chiefly known by her poem of "Psyche," in six cantos, 
written in the Spenserian stanza, founded on the classic fable of Apuleius, 
of the loves of Cupid and Psyche, or the allegory of Love and the Soul 
(4;j(^u))).2 Many of the pictures in this, the chief production of her muse, 
are conceived in the true spirit of poetry, while over the whole composition 
is spread the richest glow of purified passion. Some of her minor pieces, 
also, are exceedingly beautiful ; and the lines " On Receiving a Branch of 
Mezereon," are scarcely exceeded, for beauty and pathos, by anything of 
the kind in the language. 



LOVE MUST BE FONDLY CHERISHED. 

When vexed by cares and harassed by distress, 
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread, 
Let Love, consoling Love ! still sweetly bless, 
And his assuasive balm benignly shed : 

» See this lyric in the Selections from Thomas Moore. 

2 The fable, it is said, is a representation of the soul, here in its prison 
house, subjected to error. Trials are set before it to purify it ; two loves meet 
it — the earthly, to draw it down to sensuous things ; and the heavenly, who, 
directing its view above, gains the victory, and leads off the soul as his bride. 

9 



90 TIGHE. [GEORGE III. 

His downy plumage, o'er thy pillow spread, 
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose ; • 
• To Love the tender heart hath ever fled, 

As on its mother's breast the infant throws 
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes. 

Oh ! fondly cherish then the lovely plant. 
Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to easej 
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant, 
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze; 
And when rude winter shall thy roses seize. 
When naught through all thy bowers but thorns remain, 
This still with undeciduous charms shall please, 
Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain, 
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain. 

Through the hard season, Love with plaintive note 
Like the kind red-breast tenderly shall sing. 
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat, 
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing. 
With cheerful promise of returning spring 
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove. 
Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting 
Of baneful peevishness; oh! never prove 
How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love! 

The tears capricious beauty loves to shed, 
The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue. 
May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread. 
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong i 
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long 
Will not endure the frown of angry strife; 
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng 
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life. 
And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife. 

Oh! he will tell you that these quarrels bring 
The ruin, not renewal, of his flame : 
If oft repeated, lo ! on rapid wing 
He flies to hide his fair but tender frame ; 
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame 
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain ! 
Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim, 
Asserts forever her repulsive reign, 
Close followed by disgust and all her chilling train. 

Indifference, dreaded power! what art shall save 
The good so cherished from thy grasping hand? 
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave 
Thy treacherous arts prepare? or how withstand 
The insidious foe, who with her leaden band 
Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity? 
Ah, never more to wake ! or e'er expand 
His golden pinions to the breezy sky, 
Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye. 



1760-1820.] TiGHE. 91 

Who can describe llie hopeless, silent pang 
With which the gentle heart first marks her sway? 
Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang 
Resistless, slowly fastening on her {jrey ; 
Sees rapture's brilliant colors fade away, 
And all the glow of beaming sympathy; 
. Anxious to watch the cold averted ray 
That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye 
Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy. 

Too faithful heart! thou never canst retrieve 
Thy withered hopes : conceal the cruel pain ! 
O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve; 
But never to the unfeeliitg ear complain : 
From fruitless struggles dearly bought refrain! 
Submit at once — the bitter task resign. 
Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain; 
Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine — 
Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine ! 

Psyche, Canto YI. 



HAGAR IN THE DESERT. 

Injured, hopeless, faint and weary, 

Sad, indignant, and forlorn, 
Through the desert wild and dreary, 

Hagar leads the child of scorn. 

Who can speak a mother's anguish, 

Painted in that tearless eye, 
Which beholds her darling languish. 

Languish unrelieved, and die? 

Lo! the empty pitcher fails her! 

Perishing with thirst he lies ; 
Death with deep despair assails her, 

Piteous as for aid he cries. 

From the dreadful image flying, 
Wild she rushes from the sight; 

In the agonies of dying 

Can she see her soul's delight '^ 

Now bereft of every hope. 

Cast upon the burning ground, 

Poor, abandoned soul ! look up ; 
Mercy have thy sorrows found. 

Lo ! the Angel of the Lord 

Comes thy great distress to cheer; 

Listen to the gracious word, 
See, divine relief is near. 

" Care of Heaven ! though man forsake thee, 
Wherefore vainly dost thou mourn ? 



92 TIGHE. [GEORGE III. 

From thy dream of M^oe awake thee, 
To thy rescued child return. 

"Lift thine eyes! behold yon fountain, 
Sparkling mid those fruitful trees ! 
Lo! beneath yon sheltering mountain 
Smile for thee green bowers of ease. 

" In the hour of sore affliction 

God hath seen and pitied thee; 
Cheer thee in the sweet conviction 
Thou henceforth his care shalt be. 

" Be no more by doubts distressed, 
Mother of a mighty -race ! 
By contempt no more oppressed. 
Thou hast found a resting-place." 

Thus, from peace and comfort driven, 

Thou, poor soul, all desolate. 
Hopeless lay, till pitying Heaven 

Found thee, in thy abject state : 

0*er thy empty pitcher mourning, 

Mid the desert of the world ; 
Thus, with shame and anguish burning. 

From thy cherished pleasures hurled : 

See thy great deliverer nigh, 

Calls thee from thy sorrow vain ; 
Bids thee on his love rely. 

Bless the salutary pain. 

From thine eyes the mists dispelling, 

Lo! the well of life he shows; 
In his presence ever dwelling. 

Bids thee find thy true repose. 

Future prospects rich in blessing 

Open to thy hopes secure ; 
Sure of endless joys possessing, 

Of an heavenly kingdom sure. 



THE LILY. 

How withered, perished seems the form 
Of yon obscure, unsightly root! 

Yet from the blight of wintry storm 
It hides secure the precious fruit. 

The careless eye can find no grace, 
No beauty in the scaly folds, 

Nor see within the dark embrace 
What latent loveliness it holds. 



760-1820.] TiGHE. 93 

Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, 

The lily wraps her silver vest, 
Till vernal suns and vernal gales 

Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. 

Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap 

The undelighting, slighted thing; 
There, in the cold earth buried deep, 

In silence let it wait the spring. 

Oh ! many a stormy night shall close 

In gloom upon the barren earth, 
While still, in undisturbed repose. 

Uninjured lies the future birth! 

And ignorance, with skeptic eye, 

Hope's patient smile shall wondering view ; 

Or mock her fond credulity, 

As her soft tears the spot bedew. 

Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear! 

The sun, the shower indeed shall come; 
The promised verdant shoot appear, 

And nature bid her blossoms bloom. 

And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring! 

Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, 
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string. 

Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed; 

Unfold thy robes of purest white, 

Unsullied from their darksome grave — 

And thy soft petals, silvery light, 

In the mild breeze unfettered wave. 

So Faith shall seek the lowly dust 

Where humble Sorrow loves to lie, 
And bid her thus her hopes entrust, 

And watch with patient, cheerful eye; 

And bear the long, cold, wintry night, 

And bear her own degraded doom. 
And wait till Heaven's reviving light, 

Eternal Spring! shall burst the gloom. 

May 1S09. 



ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OP MEZEREON WHICH FLOWERED 
AT WOODSTOCK.^ 

Odors of Spring, my sense ye charm 
With fragrance premature; 

"■ This poem was the last ever composed by the author, who expired at the 
place where it was written, after six years of protracted malady, on the 24th 
of March, 1810, in the thirty-seventh year of her age. Her fears of death 

9* 



94 TIGHE. [GEORGE III. 

And, mid these days of dark alarm, 

Almost to hope allure. 
Methinks with purpose soft ye come 

To tell of brighter hours, 
Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom, 

Her sunny gales and showers, 

Alas ! for me shall May in vain 

The powers of life restore; 
These eyes, that weep and watch in pain, 

Shall see her charms no more. 
No, no, this anguish cannot last ! 

Beloved friends, adieu ! 
The bitterness of death were past, 

Could I resign but you. 

But oh ! in every mortal pang 

That rends my soul from life, 
That soul which seems on you to h&ng 

Through each convulsive strife, 
Ev'n now, with agonizing grasp 

Of terror and regret, 
To all in life its love would clasp 

Clings close and closer yet. 

Yet why, immortal, vital spark ! 

Thus mortally opprest ? 
Look up, my soul, through prospects dark, 

And bid thy terrors rest ! 
Forget, forego thy earthly part, 

Thine heavenly being trust ! 
Ah, vain attempt ! my coward heart 

Still shuddering clings to dust. 

Oh ye ! who soothe the pangs of death 

With love's ov/n patient care, 
Still, still retain this fleeting breath. 

Still pour the fervent prayer : 
And ye, whose smile must greet my eye 

No more, nor voice my ear. 
Who breathe for me the tender sigh, 

And shed the pitying tear, 

Whose kindness (though far, far removed) 

My grateful thoughts perceive. 
Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved, 

My last sad claim receive ! 
Oh ! do not quite your friend forget, 

Forget alone her faults; 
And speak of her with fond regret 

Who asks your lingering thoughts. 

December 1S09. 



were entirely removed before she quitted this scene of trial and suffering ; 
and her spirit departed to a better state of existence, conifiding- with heavenly 
joy in the acceptance and love of her Redeemer. 



1760-1820.] CUMBERLAND. 95 



RICHARD CUMBERLAND, 1722—1811. 

Richard Cumberland, a celebrated dramatic and miscellaneous writer, 
was born under the roof of his maternal grandfather, the celebrated Dr. 
Richard Bentley,' on the 29th of February, 1722. After the usual prepara- 
tory studies, he was admitted into Trinity College, Cambridge, where he 
graduated with distinguished honor in 1750. Soon after this, while pursuing 
his studies at the university, he received an invitation from Lord Halifax 
to become his private and confidential secretary. Accordingly he proceeded 
to London, where he published his first offering to the press — a churchyard 
Elegy,in imitation of Gray's. It made but little impression. "The public," 
he observes, "were very little interested in it, and Dodsley as little pro- 
fited." Soon after this, he published his first legitimate drama, "The Ba- 
nishment of Cicero ;" but it was not adapted for the stage, and it afterwards 
appeared as a dramatic poem. 

In 1759, he married Elizabeth, the only daughter of George Ridge, Esq., 
of Kilminston, and through the influence of his patron, Lord Halifax, was 
appointed crown agent for Nova Scotia ; and in the next year, when that 
nobleman, on the accession of George III., was made lord- lieutenant of 
Ireland, Cumberland accompanied him as secretary. He now began to 
write with assiduity for the stage, and produced a variety of plays, of which 
the most successful was the comedy of " The West Indian," and thus he 
became known to the literary and distinguished society of the day. The 
character of him by Goldsmith, in his " Retaliation," is one of the finest 
compliments ever paid by one author to another.^ 

In 1780, Cumberland was sent on a confidential mission to the courts of 
Madrid and Lisbon, to induce them to enter into separate treaties of peace 
with England. But he failed to accomplish the object of his mission, and 
returned in 1781, having contracted, in the public service, a debt of five 
thousand pounds, which Lord North's ministry meanly and unjustly refused 
to pay. He was compelled, therefore, to sell all his paternal estate, and 
retire to private life. He fixed his residence at Tunbridge Wells, and there 
poured forih a variety of dramas, essays, and other works : among which 
were "Anecdotes of Eminent Painters in Spain;" a poem in eight books 
entitled "Calvary, or the Death of Christ," and another called the "Exo- 

* See "Compendium of English Literature," p. 429. 

2 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught, 
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault? 
Say, was it that, vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 
He grew lazy at last and drew from himself? 



96 CUMBERLAND. [GEORGE III. 

diad." Here also, in 1785, he first published in two volumes the collection 
of Essays known as "The Observer," which the next year was consider- 
ably enlarged, was published in five volumes in 1790, and in ] 803 was incor- 
porated with the British Classics. In 1806, he published "Memoirs of his 
Own Life;" and in 1811 his last work, entitled "Retrospection, a Poem in 
Familiar Verse." ^ He died on the 11th of May, in the same year. 

Of the personal character of Mr. Cumberland, a pretty accurate judgment 
may be formed from his " Memoirs." His self-esteem was great and his 
vanity overweening, but he possessed as kind a heart as ever beat in a human 
breast. In society few men appeared to more advantage in conversation, or 
evinced a more perfect mastery of the art of pleasing.^ As a writer, he may 
be said to be more remarkable for the number than for the distinguished 
excellence of his w^orks; but many of them, it should be remembered, were 
hastily produced in order to better his income: and it has been justly said 
that, "if he has produced much that is perishable or forgotten, he has also 
evolved creations which have been enregistered as among the finest efforts 
of genius." His " Observer" is among the most interesting and instructive 
of the series called the British Classics,^ and few books are read with more 
pleasure than his " Memoirs of his Own Life." 



THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. 

The poet; thereforCj whether Hebrew or Greek, was in the earliest 
ages a sacred character, and his talent a divine gift, a celestial in- 
spiration : men regarded him as the ambassador of Heaven and 
the interpreter of its will. It is perfectly in nature, and no less 
agreeable to Grod's providence, to suppose that even in the darkest 
times some minds of a more enlightened sort should break forth, 
and be engaged in the contemplation of the universe and its author : 
from meditating upon the works of the Creator, the transition to 
the act of praise and adoration follows as it were of course : these 
are operations of the mind, which naturally inspire it with a cer- 
tain portion of rapture and enthusiasm, rushing upon the lips in 

* For an extract from this poem, see " Compendium of English Literature," 
p. 714. 

2 Dr. Johnson, in a letter to Mrs. Thrale, thus speaks of him : " The want 
of company is an inconvenience, but Mr. Cumberland is a million." 

3 Of this, Dr. Drake thus speaks in the fifth volume of his Essays, p. 393 : 
" The 'Observer,' though the sole labor of an individual, is yet rich in vanV^y, 
both of subject and manner; in this respect, indeed, as Avell as in literary in- 
terest, and in fertility of invention, it may be classed with the ' Spectator' and 
'Adventurer;' if inferior to the latter in grandeur of fiction, or to the former 
in delicate irony and dramatic unity of design, it is wealthier in its literary 
fund than either, equally moral in its views, and as abundant in the creation 
of incident. I consider it, therefore, with the exception of the papers just 
mentioned, as superior, tJi its powers of attraction^ to every other periodical 
composition." 



1760-1820.] CUMBERLAND. 97 

warm and glowing language, and disdaining to be expressed in 
ordinary and vulgar phrase. Poetry then is the language of prayer^ 
an address becoming of the Deity; it may be remembered, it may 
be repeated in the ears of the people called together for the pur- 
poses of worship; this is a form that may be fixed upon their mindS; 
and in this they may be taught to join. 

The next step in the progress of poetry from the praise of God 
is to the praise of men : illustrious characters, heroic actions are 
singled out for celebration: the inventors of useful arts, the 
reformers of savage countries, the benefactors of mankind, are 
extolled in verse, they are raised to the skies : and the poet, having 
praised them as the first of men whilst on earth, deifies them after 
death, and, conscious that they merit immortality, boldly bestows 
it, and assigns to them a rank and office in heaven appropriate to 
the character they maintained in life. Hence it is that the merits 
of a Bacchus, a Hercules, and numbers more are amplified by the 
poet, till they become the attributes of their divinity; altars are 
raised and victims immolated to their worship. These are the 
fanciful efiects of poetry in its second stage : religion overheated 
turns into enthusiasm ; enthusiasm forces the imagination into all 
the visionary regions of fable, and idolatry takes possession of the 
whole G-entile world. The Egyptians, a mysterious, dogmatizing 
race, begin the work with symbol and hieroglyphic : the Greeks, 
a vain ingenious people, invent a set of tales and fables for what 
they do not understand, embellish them with all the glittering 
ornaments of poetry, and spread the captivating delusion over all 
the world. 

In the succeeding period we review the poet in full possession 
of this brilliant machinery, and with all Olympus at his command : 
surrounded by Apollo and the Muses, he commences every poem 
with an address to them for protection; he has a deity at his call 
for every operation of nature; if he would roll the thunder, Jupiter 
shakes Mount Ida to dignify his description; Neptune attends him 
in his car, if he would allay the ocean; if he would let loose the 
winds to raise it, -^olus unbars his cave; the spear of Mars and 
the £egis of Minerva arm him for the battle; the arrows of Apollo 
scatter pestilence through the air ! Mercury flies upon the messages 
of Jupiter; Juno raves with jealousy, and Venus leads the Loves 
and Graces in her train. In this class, we contemplate Homer 
and his inferior brethren of the epic order; it is their province to 
form the warrior, instruct the politician, animate the patriot; they 
delineate the characters and manners; they charm us with their 
descriptions, surprise us with their incidents, interest us with their 
dialogue; they engage every passion in its turn, melt us to pity^ 



98 CUMBERLAND. [GEORGE III. 

rouse us to glory, strike us with terror, fire us with indignation; 
in a word, they prepare us for the drama, and the drama for us. 

A new poet now comes upon the stage; he stands in person 
before us : he no longer appears as a blind and wandering bard, 
chanting his rhapsodies to a throng of villagers collected in a 
group about him, but erects a splendid theatre, gathers together a 
whole city as his audience, prepares a striking spectacle, provides 
a chorus of actors, brings music, dance, and dress to his aid, real- 
izes the thunder, bursts open the tombs of the dead, calls forth 
their apparitions, descends to the very regions of the damned, and 
drags the Furies from their flames to present themselves personally 
to the terrified spectators: such are the powers of the drama; here 
the poet reigns and triumphs in his highest glory. 

The fifth denomination gives us the lyric poet chanting his ode 
at the public games and festivals, crowned with olive and encom- 
passed by all the wits and nobles of his age and country : here we 
contemplate Stersichorus, Alcaeus, Pindar, Callistratus : sublime, 
abrupt, impetuous, they strike us with the shock of their electric 
genius ; they dart from earth to heaven ; there is no following them 
in their flights; we stand gazing with surprise; their boldness awes 
us, their brevity confounds us : their sudden transitions and ellipses 
escape our apprehension; we are charmed we know not why, we 
are pleased with being puzzled, and applaud although we cannot 
comprehend. In the lighter lyric we meet Anacreon, Sappho, and 
the votaries of Bacchus and Venus ; in the grave, didactic, solemn 
class we have the venerable names of a Solon, a Tyrt^eus, and 
those who may be styled the demagogues in poetry : Is liberty to 
be asserted, licentiousness to be repressed ? Is the spirit of a nation 
to be roused ? It is the poet, not the orator, must give the soul its 
energy and spring. Is Salamis to be recovered ? It is the elegy 
of Solon must sound the march to its attack. Are the Lacede- 
monians to be awakened from their lethargy ? It is Tyrteeus who 
must sing the war-song, and revive their languid courage. 

Poetry next appears in its pastoral character; it affects the garb 
of shepherds and the language of the rustic : it represents to our 
view the rural landscape and the peaceful cottage. It records the 
labors, the amusements, the loves of the village nymphs and 
swains, and exhibits nature in its simplest state : it is no longer 
the harp or the lyre, but the pipe of the poet, which now invites 
our attention. 

Observer, No. 67, 



1760-1820.] CUxMBERLAND. 99 



^SCHYLUS AND SHAKSPEARE COMPARED. 

When I see the names of these two great luminaries of the 
dramatic sphere, so distant in time but so nearly allied in genius^ 
casually brought in contact by the nature of my subject, I cannot 
help pausing for a while in this place to indulge so interesting a 
contemplation, in which I find my mind balanced between two 
objects that seem to have equal claims upon me for my admira- 
tion, ^schylus is justly styled the father of tragedy, but this is 
not to be interpreted as if he was the inventor of it : Shakspeare 
with equal justice claims the same title, and his originality is qua- 
lified with the same exception. The Greek tragedy was not more 
rude and undigested when iEschylus brought it into shape, than 
the English tragedy was when Shakspeare began to write : if, 
therefore, it be granted that he had no aids from the Greek theatre 
(and I think this is not likely to be disputed), so far these great 
masters are upon equal ground, ^schylus was a warrior of high 
repute, of a lofty, generous spirit, and deep as it should seem in 
the erudition of his times. In all these particulars he has great 
advantage over our countryman, who was humbly born, of the 
most menial occupation, and, as it is generally thought, unlearned, 
^schylus had the whole epic of Homer in his hands, the Iliad, 
Odyssey, and that prolific source of dramatic fable, the Ilias Minor : 
he had also a great fabulous creation to resort to amongst his own 
divinities, characters ready defined, and an audience whose super- 
stition was prepared for everything he could ofier. He had, there- 
fore, a firmer and broader stage (if I may be allowed the expres- 
sion) under his feet than Shakspeare had. His fables in general 
are Homeric, and yet it does not follow that we can pronounce for 
Shakspeare that he is more original in his plots, for I understand 
that late researches have traced him in all or nearly all. Both 
poets added so much machinery and invention of their own in the 
conduct of their fables, that whatever might have been the source, 
still their streams had little or no taste of the spring they flowed 
from. In point of character we have better grounds to decide, 
and yet it is but justice to observe that it is not fair to bring a 
mangled poet in comparison with one who is entire : In his divine 
personages, ^schylus has the field of heaven, and indeed of hell 
also, to himself; in his heroic and military characters, he has never 
been excelled : he had too good a model within his own bosom to 
fail of making those delineations natural. In his imaginary being 
also he will be found a respectable, though not an equal rival of 



100 CUMBERLAND. [GEORGE in. 

our poet; but in the variety of character, in all the nicer touches 
of nature, in all the extravagancies of caprice and humor, from 
the boldest feature down to the minutest foible, Shakspeare stands 
alone. Such persons as he delineates never came into the contem- 
plation of ^schylus as a poet; his tragedy has no dealing with 
them ; the simplicity of the Greek fable, and the great portion of 
the drama filled up by the chorus, allow of little variety of cha- 
racter; and the most which can be said of ^schylus in this par- 
ticular is that he never offends against nature or propriety, whether 
his cast is in the terrible or pathetic, the elevated or the simple. 
His versification with the intermixture of lyric composition is more 
various than that of Shakspeare; both are lofty and sublime in 
the extreme, abundantly metaphorical, and sometimes extravagant. 
Both were subject to be hurried on by an uncontrollable im- 
pulse, nor could nature alone suffice for either : ^schylus had an 
apt creation of imaginary beings at command — 

He could call spirits from the vasty deep, 

and they loould come; Shakspeare, having no such creation in 
resource, boldly made one of his own. If ^schylus therefore was 
invincible, he owed it to his armor, and that, like the armor of 
^neas, was the work of the gods : but the unassisted invention 
of Shakspeare seized all and more than superstition supplied to 
j^schylus. 

Observer, No. 69. 



OBSERVATIONS ON STYLE. 

The celebrated author of the Kambler, in his concluding paper, 
says, '^ I have labored to refine our language to grammatical purity, 
and to clear it from colloquial barbarisms, licentious idioms, and 
irregular combinations : something perhaps I have added to the 
elegance of its construction, and something to the harmony of its 
cadence.'^ I hope our language hath gained all the profit which 
the labors of this meritorious writer were exerted to produce. In 
style of a certain description he undoubtedly excels; but, though I 
think there is much in his essays for a reader to admire, I should 
not recommend them as a model for a disciple to copy. 

Simplicity, ease, and perspicuity should be the first objects of 
a young writer. Addison and other authors of his class will furnish 
him with examples, and assist him in the attainment of these ex- 
cellencies; but after all, the style in which a man shall write will 
not be formed by imitation only ; it will be the style of his mind : 
it will assimilate itself to his mode of thinking, and take its color 



1760-1820.] CUMBERLAND. 101 

from the complexion of his ordinary discourse, and the company 
he consorts with. As for that distinguishing characteristic which 
the ingenious essayist terms very properly the harmony of its 
cadence, that I take to be incommunicable, and immediately de- 
pendent upon the ear of him who models it. This harmony of 
cadence is so strong a mark of discrimination between authors of 
note in the world of letters, that we can depose to a style whose 
modulation we are familiar with almost as confidently as to the 
handwriting of a correspondent. But though I think there will 
be found in the periods of every established writer a certain pecu- 
liar tune (whether harmonious or otherwise), which will depend 
rather upon the natural ear than upon the imitative powers, yet I 
would not be understood to say that the study of good models can 
fail to be of use in the first formation of it. "When a subject pre- 
sents itself to the mind, and thoughts arise, which are to be com- 
mitted to writing, it is then for a man to choose whether he will 
express himself in simple or in elaborate diction, whether he will 
compress his matter or dilate it, ornament it with epithets and robe 
it in metaphor, or whether he will deliver it plainly and naturally 
in such language as a well-bred person and scholar would use who 
affects no parade of speech, nor aims at any flights of fancy. Let 
him decide as he will, in all these cases he hath models in plenty 
to choose from, which may be said to court his imitation. 

For instance; if his ambition is to glitter and surprise with the 
^gurative and metaphorical brilliancy of his period, let him tune his 
ear to some such passages as the following, where Doctor Johnson, 
in the character of critic and biographer, is pronouncing upon the 
poet Congreve : "His scenes exhibit not much of humor, imagery, 
or passion: his personages are a kind of intellectual gladiators; 
every sentence is to ward or strike ; the contest of smartness is never 
intermitted; his wit is a meteor playing to and fro, with alternate 
coruscations." If he can learn to embroider with as much splen- 
dor, taste, and address as this and many other samples from the 
same master exhibit, he cannot study in a better school. 

On the contrary, if simplicity be his object, and a certain sere- 
nity of style, which seems in unison with the soul, he may open 
the " Spectator," and take from the first paper of Mr. Addison the 
first paragraph that meets his eye — the following, for instance : 
" Ther^ is nothing that makes its way more directly to the soul 
than heauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfaction and 
complacency through the imagination, and gives a finishing to 
anything that is great or uncommon : the very first discovery of it 
strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness 
and delight through all its faculties." Or again in the same essay : 
10 



102 CUMBERLAND. [GEORGE III, 

^'We nowhere meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in 
nature than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting 
of the sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of 
light that show themselves in clouds of a different situation." A 
florid writer would hardly have resisted the opportunities which 
here court the imagination to indulge its flights; whereas, few 
writers of any sort would have been tempted, on a topic merely 
critical, to have employed such figurative and splendid diction as 
that of Doctor Johnson. These little samples, therefore, though 
selected with little or no care, but taken as they came to hand, 
may serve to exemplify my meaning, and in some degree charac- 
terize the different styles of the respective writers. 

Now, as every student, who is capable of copying either of these 
styles, or even of comparing them, must discern on which side the 
greater danger of miscarrying lies, as well as the greater disgrace 
in case of such miscarriage, prudence will direct him in his outset 
not to hazard the attempt at a florid diction. If his ear hath not 
been vitiated by vulgar habitudes, he will only have to guard 
against mean expressions, while he is studying to be simple and 
perspicuous : he will put his thoughts into language naturally as 
they jpresent themselves, giving them for the present little more 
than mere grammatical correction : afterwards, upon a closer re- 
view, he will polish those parts that seem rude, harmonize them 
where they are unequal, compress what is too diffusive, raise what 
is low, and attune the whole to that general cadence which seems 
most grateful to his ear. 

Observer, No. 81. 



CHARACTER OF GOLDSMITH. 

That he was fantastically vain all the world knows; but there 
was no settled and inherent malice in his heart. He was tenacious 
to a ridiculous extreme of certain pretensions that did not, and by 
nature could not, belong to him, and at the same time inexcusably 
careless of the fame which he had power to command. His table- 
talk was, as Grarrick aptly compared it, like that of a parrot, whilst 
he wrote like Apollo; he had gleams of eloquence, and at times 
a majesty of thought, but in general his tongue and his pen had 
two very different styles of talking. What foibles he had, he took 
no pains to conceal; the good qualities of his heart were too fre- 
quently obscured by the carelessness of his conduct, and the fri- 
volity of his manners. Sir Joshua Reynolds was very good to 
him; and would have drilled him into better trim and order for 



1760-1820.] CUMBERLAND. 103 

society, if be would have been amenable; for Reynolds was a per- 
fect gentleman, bad good sense, great propriety, witb all tbe social 
attributes, and all tbe graces of bospitality, equal to any man. 
He well knew bow to appreciate men of talents, and bow near akin 
tbe Muse of Poetry was to tbat art of wbicb be was so eminent a 
master. '^ * 

Tbere is something in Goldsmith's prose that to my ear is 
uncommonly sweet and harmonious; it is clear, simple, easy to be 
understood; we never want to read bis period twice over, except 
for tbe pleasure it bestows; obscurity never calls us back to a 
repetition of it. Tbat be was a poet there is no doubt. 



. JOHNSON AT THE TEA-TABLE. 

At the tea-table he bad considerable demands upon his favorite 
beverage, and I remember, when Sir Joshua Reynolds at my house 
reminded him that be bad drunk eleven cups, he replied, "Sir, I 
did not count your glasses of wine; why should you number up my 
cups of tea?" And then laughing, in perfect good-humor be 
added, "Sir, I should have released the lady from any further 
trouble, if it bad not been for your remark ; but you have reminded 
me tbat I want one of the dozen, and I must request Mrs. Cum- 
berland to round up my number.'^ When he saw the readiness 
and complacency witb which my wife obeyed bis call, he turned a 
kind and cheerful look upon her, and said, "Madam, I must tell 
you for your comfort, you have escaped much better than a certain 
lady did awhile ago, upon whose patience I intruded greatly more 
than I have done on yours; but the lady asked me for no other 
purpose than to make a zany of me, and set me gabbling to a 
parcel of people I knew nothing of; so, madam, I had my revenge 
of her; for I swallowed five-and-twenty cups of her tea, and did 
not treat her witb as many words.'' I can only say my wife would 
have made tea for him as long as the New River could have sup- 
plied her with water. 

It was on such occasions be was to be seen in bis happiest mo- 
ments, when, animated by the cheering attention of friends whom 
he liked, be would give full scope to those talents for narration in 
which I verily think he was unrivalled, both in the brilliancy of 
his wit, the flow of his humor, and the energy of his language. 
Anecdotes of times past, scenes of bis own life, and characters of 
humorists, enthusiasts, crack-brained projectors, and a variety of 
strange beings that be had chanced upon, when detailed by him 



104 CUMBERLAND. [GEORGE III. 

at length, and garnished with those episodical remarks, sometimes 
comic, sometimes grave, which he would throw in with infinite 
fertility of fancy, were a treat, which, though not always to be 
purchased by five-and-twenty cups of tea, I have often had the 
happiness to enjoy for less than half the number. 



CHARACTER OF JOHNSON. 

Alas! I am not fit to paint his character; nor is there need of 
it; etiam mortuus loquitur;'^ every man who can buy a book has 
bought a BoswELL. Johnson is known to all the reading world. 
I also knew him well, respected him highly, loved him sincerely : 
it was never my chance to see him in those moments of moroseness 
and ill-humor which are imputed to him, perhaps with truth; for 
who would slander him ? But I am not warranted by any expe- 
rience of those humors to speak of him otherwise than of a friend, 
who always met me with kindness, and from whom I never sepa- 
rated without regret. When I sought his company he had no 
capricious excuses for withholding it, but lent himself to every 
invitation with cordiality, and brought good-humor with him, that 
gave life to the circle he was in. 

He presented himself always in his fashion of apparel : a brown 
coat with metal buttons, black waistcoat, and worsted stockings, with 
a flowing bob wig, was the style of his wardrobe ; but they were in 
perfectly good trim, and with the ladies, whom he generally met, he 
had nothing of the slovenly philosopher about him. He fed heartily, 
but not voraciously, and was extremely courteous in his commend- 
ations of any dish that pleased his palate : he suffered his next 
neighbor to squeeze the China oranges into his wineglass after 
dinner; which else perchance had gone aside and trickled into his 
shoes; for the good man had neither straight sight nor steady nerves. 

Who will say that Johnson would have been such a champion 
in literature — such a front-rank soldier in the fields of fame — if he 
had not been pressed into the service, and driven on to glory with 
the bayonet of sharp necessity pointed at his back ? If fortune 
had turned him into a field of clover, he would have lain down and 
rolled in it. The mere manual labor of writing would not have 
allowed his lassitude and love of ease to have taken the pen out of 
the inkhorn, unless the cravings of hunger had reminded him that 
he must fill the sheet before he saw the table-cloth. * * 

* "He speaks even when dead." 



1760-1820.] CUMBERLAND. 105 

Johnson's jBrst style was naturally energetic, his middle style 
was turgid to a fault, his latter style was softened down and har- 
monized into periods more tuneful and more intelligible. His 
execution was rapid, yet his mind was not easily provoked into 
exertion : the variety we find in his writings was not the variety 
of choice arising from the impulse of his proper genius, but tasks 
imposed upon him by the dealers in ink, and contracts on his part 
submitted to in satisfaction of the pressing calls of hungry want; 
for, painful as it is to relate, I have heard that illustrious scholar 
assert (and he never varied from the truth of fact) that he sub 
sisted himself for a considerable space of time upon the scanty 
pittance of four-pence halfpenny per day. 

The expanse of matter which Johnson had found room for in 
his intellectual storehouse, the correctness with which he had as- 
sorted it, and the readiness with which he could turn to any article 
that he wanted to make present use of, were the properties in him 
which I contemplated with the most admiration. Some have called 
him a savage ; they were only so far right in the resemblance, as 
that, like the savage, he never came into suspicious company without 
his spear in his hand and his bow and quiver at his back. • In con- 
clusion, Johnson's era was not wanting in men to be distinguished 
for their talents; yet if one was to be selected out as the first 
great literary character of the time, I believe all voices would 
concur in naming him. Let me here insert the following lines, 
descriptive of his character: — 



ox SAMUEL JOHNSOX. 

Herculean strength and a Stentorian voice, 

Of wit a fund, of words a countless choice; 

In learning rather various than profound, 

In truth intrepid, in religion sound : 

A trembling form and a distorted sight. 

But firm in judgment and in genius bright; 

In controversy seldom known to spare, 

But humble as the publican in prayer; 

To more than merited his kindness, kind, 

And, though in manners harsh^ of friendly mind; 

Deep tinged with melancholy's blackest shade, 

And, though prepared to die, of death afraid — 

Such JoHxsox was; of him with justice vain, 

When will this nation see his like again"? 



10^ 



106 GRAHAME. [GEORGE III. 



JAMES GRAHAME, 1765—1811. 

James Grahame, the author of the " Sabbath," was the son of a respect- 
able attorney in Glasgow, and was born in that city on the 22d of April, 
1765. He was educated at the excellent public schools of that city, and 
had a very early and strong desire to enter the clerical profession; but it 
was the long-cherished wish of his father that he should be bred to his own 
calling. Accordingly, our poet sacrificed his own wishes to those of his 
parent, and studied the law. Many irksome years — the best years of his 
life — were wasted in this, to him, most uncongenial pursuit, and it was 
finally abandoned. For many years, however, he toiled on in it, and, from 
a sense of what he owed to his family, he gave to it all the attention of 
which a mind devoted to higher purposes was capable. 

In 1804, he published anonymously his poem of " The Sabbath." He 
had kept from all his friends, and even from his wife, who was possessed 
of fine literary taste, all knowledge of what he had been engaged in, and 
laid a copy of his poem silently on his parlor table, as soon as it appeared. 
Mrs. Grahams was led by curiosity to examine it, and, while doing so, he 
was walking up and down the room, awaiting some remark from her. At 
length, she burst into enthusiastic admiration of the performance, and well 
knowing her husband's weak side, very naturally added, " Ah, James, if 
you could produce a poem like this !" Longer concealment was impossi- 
ble, and Mrs. Grahame, justly proud of her husband's genius, no longer 
checked its bent. 

"The Sabbath" was warmly received throughout Scotland.' It came 
from the heart ; and it spoke to the heart of the nation. Grahame's voca- 
tion was now confirmed ; and, in the following two years, during the long 
recess of the Scottish courts, he retired with his family to a cottage at 
Kirkhill, on the classic banks of the Esk, and gave himself up to 

" Calm contemplation and poetic ease." 

He now determined to abandon the law, and zealously prepared himself 
for the ministry. This had been his early, his constant wish. His ap- 
pearance, voice, manner, as well as his talents and his piety, were all in 
keeping with that calling. He was ordained in 1809, and soon after settled 
with his family in Shipton, in Gloucestershire. This year he published his 
"British Georgics," a didactic agricultural poem. His health had long 
been delicate, and he was induced, in 1811, to go to Edinburgh for a 
change of air and for medical advice. But it was apparent to all that his 
days on earth could not be long. He had a natural desire of breathing his 
last in his own native city, and Mrs. Grahame set out with him, on the 
11th of September, for Glasgow. He was barely able to reach the place, 

' Notwithstanding a rather severe criticism in the " Edinburgh Review, " 
vol. V. p. 437. But, subsequently, in reviewing the author's " Georgics," the 
same Review made amends for its former severity. See vol. xvi p. 213. 



1760-1820.] GRAHAME. 107 

and died there on the 14th of September, 1811, in the forty-seventh year 
of his age, most sincerely and deeply lamented by a large circle of warmly 
attached friends.^ 

Of the character of Grahame's poetry there is now scarcely but one 
opinion. Its great charms are, its elevated moral tone, and its easy, simple, 
and unaffected description. " His * Sabbath' will always hold its place 
among those poems which are, and deserve to be, in the hands of the peo- 
ple. "^ He exhibits great tenderness of sentiment, which runs through all 
his writings, and sometimes deepens into true pathos. " We do not know 
any poetry, indeed, that lets us in so directly to the heart of the writer, and 
produces so full and pleasing a conviction that it is dictated by the genuine 
feelings which it aims at communicating to the reader. If there be less 
fire and elevation than in the strains of some of his contemporaries, there 
is more truth and tenderness than is comm.only found along with those 
qualities."'^ 



SABBATH MORNING. 

How still the morning of the hallowed day! 

Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 

The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. 

The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 

Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers. 

That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. 

Sounds the most faint attract the ear — the hum 

Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 

The distant bleating midway up the hill. 

Calmness seems throned on yon un moving cloud. 

To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, 

The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; 

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 

Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook 

Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen ; 

While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke 

O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals 

The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. 

With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods ; 
Tlie dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din 
Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. 
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, 
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
Unlieedful of the pasture, roams at large; 
And, as bis stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, 
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 

'■ Professor Wilson has written some beautiful lines to his memory, a por- 
tion of which will be found under the author's name. 
* " Quarterly Review," vol. iii. p. 457. 
= '< Edinburgh Review," vol. xvi. p. 216. 



108 GRAHAME. [GEORGE HI. 

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. 
Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day ! 
On other days, the man of toil is doomed 
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground 
Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold 
And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree ; 
But on this day, embosomed in his home, 
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; 
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy 
Of giving thanks to God — not thanks of form, 
A word and a grimace, but reverently, 
With covered face and upward earnest eye. 
Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day! 
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe 
The morning air pure from the city's smoke ; 
While wandering slowly up the river side, 
He meditates on Him whose power he marks 
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, 
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom 
Around the roots; and while he thus surveys 
With elevated joy each rural charm, 
He hopes (yet fears presumption in the hope) 
To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends. 



A SUMMER SABBATH WALK. 

Delightful is this loneliness; it calms 

My heart: pleasant the cool beneath these elms 

That throw across the stream a moveless shade. 

Here nature in her midnoon whisjier speaks ; 

How peaceful every sound! — the ringdove's plaint, 

Moaned from the forest's gloomiest retreat, 

While every other woodland lay is mute, 

Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest. 

And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear — 

The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp — the buzz, 

Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee, 

That soon as loosed booms with full twang away — 

The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal. 

Scared from the shallows by my passing tread : 

Dimpling the water glides, with here and there 

A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay 

The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout 

Watches his time to spring ; or from above, 

Som§ feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs. 

Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood 

Bears off" the prize. Sad emblem of man's lot! 

He, giddy insect, from his native leaf 

(Where safe and happily he might have lurked). 

Elate upon am.bition's gaudy wings, 



1760-1820.] GRAHAME. 109 

Forgetful of his origin, and worse, 
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream, 
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape, 
Buoyant he flutters but a little while. 
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky 
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. 

Now, let me trace the stream up to its source 
Among the hills, its runnel by degrees 
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. 
Closer and closer still the banks approach, 
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble shoots. 
With brier and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray, 
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount 
Into the open air : grateful the breeze 
That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain 
Spread wide below : how sweet the placid view! 
But, oh ! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought, 
That thousands and ten thousands of the sons 
Of toil partake this day the common joy 
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale. 
Of breathing in the silence of the woods, 
And blessing him who gave the Sabbath-day. 
Yes ! my heart flutters with a freer throb. 
To think that now the townsman wanders forth 
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 
The coolness of the day's decline, to see 
His children sport around, and simply pull 
The flower and weed promiscudlis, as a boon 
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix. 

Again I turn me to the hill, and trace 
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned, 
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, 
And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down. 

Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, 
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced 
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic 
The shepherd's shadow thrown athwart the chasm, 
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. 
How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel dry, 
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. 
But hark a plaintive sound floating along ! 
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling ; now it dies 
Away, now rises full ; it is the song 
Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs 
Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear; 
It is the music of the heart, the voice 
Of venerable age, of guileless youth. 
In kindly circle seated on the ground 
Before their wicker door. Behold the man ! 
The grandsire and the saint ; his silvery locks 
Beam in the parting ray ; before him lies, 
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open book. 
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight; 



110 GRAHAME. [GEORGE III. 

While heedless at a side, the lisping boy 
Fondles the laoib that nightly shares his couch. 



A WINTER S SABBATH WALK. 

How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep 
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day — 
Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields, 
Each hollow pathway level with the plain : 
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there 
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom. 
High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached 
The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch. 
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried; 
No step approaches to the house of prayer. 

The flickering fall is o'er : the clouds disperse, 
And show the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge. 
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam 
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time 
To visit nature in her grand attire. 
Though perilous the mountainous ascent, 
A noble recompense the danger brings. 
How beautiful the plain stretched far below, 
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream 
With azure windings, on the leafless wood ! 
But what the beauty of the plain, compared 
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned. 
Holding joint rule with solitude divine. 
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance 
To steps the most adventurously bold 1 
There silence dwells profound ; or if the cry 
Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush. 
The mantled echoes no response return. 

Bat let me now explore the deep-sunk dell. 
No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's, 
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs 
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green. 
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts. 
Nor linger there too long : the wintry day 
Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall, 
Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen, 
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill 
Mines for itself a snow-coved way! Oh, then. 
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot. 
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side, 
Where night- winds sweep the gathering drift away: 
So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock 
From faithless pleasures, full into the storms 
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast, 



1760-1820.] GRAHAME. Ill 

Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, 
Bedimmed with shower? ; then to the pastures green 
He brings them, where the quiet waters glide, 
The stream of life, the Siloah of the soul. 



PERSECUTION OF THE COVENANTERS. 

With them each day was holy, every hour 
They stood prepared to die, a people doom'd 
To death ; — old men, and youths, and simple maids. 
With them each day was holy ; but that morn 
On which the angel said, See where the Lord 
Was laid, joyous arose; to die that day 
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways. 
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought 
The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks, 
Dispart to difterent seas : Fast by such brooks 
A little glen is sometimes scoop'd, a plat 
With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers seem 
Amid the heathery wild, that all around 
Fatigues the eye. In solitudes like these, 
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foil!d 
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws : 
There, leaning on his spear (one of the array. 
Whose gleam, in former days, hadi scathed the rose 
On England's banner, and had powerless struck 
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host), 
The lyart veteran heard the word of God 
By Cameron thunder'd, or by Renwick pour'd 
In gentle stream ; then rose the song, the loud 
Acclaim of praise. The wheeling plover ceased 
Her plaint. The solitary place was glad. 
And on the distant cairns the watcher's ear 
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note. 
But years more gloomy follow'd ; and no more 
The assembled people dared, in face of day, 
To worship God, or even at the dead 
Of night, save when the wintry-storm raved fierce. 
And thunder-peals compell'd the men of blood 
To couch within their dens : then dauntlessly 
The scatter'd few would meet, in some deep dell 
By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice. 
Their faithful pastor's voice : He by the gleam 
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book, 
And words of comfort spake : Over their souls 
His accents soothing came — as to her young 
The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve. 
She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed 
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads 
Fondly her wings ; close nestling 'neath her breast, 
They, cherish 'd, cower amid the purple blooms. 



112 SHARP. [GEORGE III. 



THE POOR MAN S FUNERAL. 

Yon motley, sable-suited throng, that wait 
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale 
Of woe ; — the husband, parent, is no more. 
Contending with disease, he labored long, 
By penury compelled; yielding at last, 
He laid him down to die ; but, lingering on 
From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw. 
Heart-broken quite, his children's looks of want 
Veiled in a clouded smile ; alas ! he heard 
The elder lispingly attempt to still 
The younger's plaint — languid he raised his head. 
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk 
Into the arms of death — the poor man's friend. 

The coffin is borne out ; the humble pomp 
Moves slowly on ; the orphan mourner's hand 
(Poor helpless child !) just reaches to the pall. 
And now they pass into the field of graves, 
And now around the narrow house they stand, 
And view the plain black board sink from the sight. 
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds, 
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mixed mould. 
The turf is spread; uncovered is each head — 
A last farewell : all turn their several ways. 
Woes me! those tear-dimmed eyes, that sobbing breast! 
Poor child ! thou thinkest of the kindly hand 
That wont to lead thee home: no more that hand 
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke 
Thy sun-bleached head and downy cheek. 
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps ; 
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page — 
Her thoughts are in the grave ; "tis thou alone. 
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue-gaze 
Of woe profound. Haste to the widowed aims; 
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice, 
And melt a heart that else will break with grief. 



GRANVILLE SHARP, 1735-1813. 

"The lives of some men maybe contemplated in their opinions and 
private studies ; of others, in their exertions and public concerns. It is 
rarely that the world beholds the union of unceasing action and unwearied 
study ; still more rarely does it enjoy the sight of such united power de- 



1760-1820.] SHARP. 113 

voting itself, at once meekly and resolutely, in the fear of God, to the best 
good of man. Yet such was the character of Granville Sharp."* 

Such are the remarks made by the biographer of Mr. Sharp in entering 
upon the consideration of his character — a character to which I feel, with 
depressing sensibility, no justice can be done in the short space allotted to 
these biographical notices. He was the son of the Rev. Thomas Sharp, Arch- 
deacon of Northumberland, and was born in Durham, on the 10th of Nov., 
1735. In 1750, he left Durham, having been apprenticed to a linen-draper 
of London. At the end of his apprenticeship, he engaged in a linen factory, 
and it was at this period he made his first advances in learning. Having a 
series of controversies with a scholar in London, whose name is not given, 
upon some disputed doctrines in the New Testament, his antagonist denied 
the correctness of our translation ; whereupon, Mr. Sharp, with that single- 
ness of purpose which attended him through life, to spare no labors to 
ascertain the truth, immediately set upon the study of Greek, and with so 
much success that he some years afterwards published a small work upon 
the Greek Article. A controversy of a similar character with a learned 
Jew led him to the study of the Hebrew language. 

In June, 1758, he obtained a subordinate appointment in the Ordnance 
office. From this time to 1765, little is known of him, except that he was 
pushing his studies in the ancient languages, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, 
with untiring industry. In this latter year, a circumstance happened which 
gave a new direction to his whole life, and which has caused him to be 
looked up to by a grateful posterity as the pioneer in the great and glorious 
reform, then commenced, of the abolition of slavery in England ; then of 
the abolition of the slave trade; and finally, in 1834, of the abolition of 
slavery throughout the whole extent of the British empire. 

In 1765, a man by the name of Lisle had brought to England from Bar- 
badoes, an African, whom he claimed as his slave, by the name of Jonathan 
Strong. He treated him in a very cruel manner, and beat him so severely 
over the head as to cause his head to swell : from this a serious disorder 
fell into his eyes, and he was abandoned by his master to the charities 
of the v^orld. In this situation he applied to Wm. Sharp, surgeon, the 
brother of Granville, and in process of time was cured. When cured, his 
so-called owner, who had, in his sickness, abandoned him, met him, and 
seeing him so well and strong, claimed him as his property. He fled to 
some friends for protection, and the knowledge of his case soon came to 
the ears of Granville Sharp, and enlisted all the energies of his soul. Suf- 
fice it to say that, by great exertions, he finally obtained the full release of 
the man.2 

But Mr. Sharp sav/ that the case of poor Strong was but one of many 

^ See " Memoirs of Granville Sharp, Esq." by Prince Hoare. London, 1820, 
4to. pp. 554. 

2 Read an interesting account of the case in the " Memoirs" before referred 
to, and also "Clarkson's History of the Abolition of the Slave Trade," pp. 66 
and 67. 

11 



114 SHARP. [GEORGE III. 

similar cases that existed in England, and of his labors in this great depart- 
ment of humanity, we will quote the words of the "Edinburgh Review:"' 
" Regardless of the dangers to which he exposed himself, both in his 
person and his fortune, Mr. Sharp stood forward in every case as the 
courageous friend of the poor Africans in England, in direct opposition 
to an opinion of Yorke and Talbot, the attorney and solicitor-general 
for the time being. This opinion had been acted upon ; and so high 
was its authority that, after it had been made public, it was held as 
the settled law of the land, that a slave, neither by baptism nor arrival in 
Great Britain or Ireland, acquires freedom, but may be legally forced back 
to the plantations. Discouraged by Judge Blackstone, and several other 
eminent lawyers, Mr. Sharp devoted three years of his life to the study of 
the English law, that he might render himself the more effectual advocate 
of these friendless strangers. In his work, entitled, * A Representation of 
the Injustice and Dangerous Tendency of tolerating Slavery in England,' 
published in the year 1769, and afterwards, in his learned and laborious 
'Inquiry into the Principles of Villanage,' he refuted the opinion of York 
and Talbot by unanswerable arguments, and neutralized their authority by 
the counter-opinion of the great Lortl Chief Justice Holt, who many years 
before had decided that, as force could be used against no man in England 
without a legal process, every slave coming into England became free, 
inasmuch as the laws of England recognized the distinction between person 
and property as perpetual and sacred. Finally, in the great case of Somer- 
set, which was argued at three different sittings, in January, in February, 
and in May of the year 1772 (the opinion of the judges having been taken 
upon the pleadings), it was at last ascertained and declared to be the law 
of the land that, as soon as ever any slave set his foot upon English terri- 
tory, he became free. Among the heroes and sages of British story, we 
can think of few whom we should feel a greater glow of honest pride in 
claiming as an ancestor than the man to whom we owe our power of re- 
peating with truth— 

' Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.' " 

After this, Mr. Sharp interested himself very much in the cause of 
slavery in America, and corresponded with that great-hearted philanthro- 
pist Anthony Benezet, with Dr. Franklin, Dr. Rush, 2 and others. During 

'■ Edinburgh Review, xii. 362. 

2 I must give a short extract from one of the letters of the venerable Dr. 
Rush to Mr. Sharp, dated Philadelphia, May 1, 1773, it does so much credit 
to the heart of the author. " A spirit of humanity and religion begins to 
awaken, in several of the colonies, in favor of the poor negroes. The clergy 
begin to bear a public testimony against this violation of the laws of Nature 
and Christianity. Great events have been brought about by small beginnings. 
Anthony Benezet stood alone a few years ago in opposing negro slavery in 
Philadelphia, and now three-fourths of the province, as well as the city , cry 
out against it. I sometimes please myself with the hopes of living to see it 



1760-1820.] SHARP. 115 

all this time, he was merely a clerk in the Ordnance office;' but an inci- 
dent soon occurred which prevented him from remaining in it any longer — 
an incident which showed a scrupulous integrity, a transparent beauty of 
character, as rare as it is delightful to behold. He had long witnessed with 
great solicitude the difficulties between England and her then American 
colonies, and sympathized entirely with the latter, justly holding the senti- 
ment "our country, right or wrong," to be an execrable one. Accordingly, 
in 1774, he published a work, entitled, "A Declaration of the People's 
Natural Rights to a Share in the Legislature," the very thing for which wa 
so strenuously contended. When, therefore, hostilities actually occurred, 
and he saw that he would be obliged, by his official station, to be instru- 
mental in furnishing munitions of war to the troops of his own country, 
which he deemed to be in the wrong, he at once resigned his public office, 
though he had been in it nearly twenty years, and was fitted for no other 
employment — had none in view — and had spent all his paternal inheritance, 
and the excess of his salary above his own wants, in acts of benevolence and 
philanthropy. How refreshing to witness such instances of strictly con- 
scientious conduct! But that God in whom he trusted did not leave him 
to want. His brothers, who were in comfortable circumstances, highly 
applauded his course, and cordially invited him to partake of their bounty 
to any extent, and for any duration. He accepted their kind invitation for 
the time, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. 

He had before, in 1767, published a work " On the Pronunciation of the 
English Tongue," and, in 1768, a tract entitled, "Remarks on several 
Important Prophecies," and a small treatise on the "Eastern Coast of 
Africa." He also took strong ground against the impressment of seamen — 
thus showing himself ahead of his age in another department of philan- 
thropy. On this subject he had an interview with Dr. Johnson, who, 
instead of encouraging him in his laudable efforts, argued the " necessity" 
of impressing seamen. How much he was influenced by the "great 
moralisf," will appear from the following remarks, in bis own diary, upon 



THE DUTY OF PLEADING FOR THE OPPRESSED. 

I have been told that it is the common lot of the poor and 
laborious part of mankind to endure hardships and inconveniences; 
that the pressing and forcing them into service is no injustice, nor 
illegality, being nothing more than one necessary contingent cir- 
cumstance of their low condition of life, in which they were bred ; 
and that the cruelty rather rests with persons, who, like me, take 
notice of their grievances, and render them unhappy by persuad- 

abolished. "With esteem for your virtues, and in particular for your zeal in 
behalf of the negro slaves in America, I am, with great respect, yours, 

"Benjamin Rush." 
' The office for the supply of cannon for the army. 



116 RP. [GEORGE in. 

ing them that they are so. All this has been urged to me with 
such plausible sophistry, and important self-sufficiency of the 
speaker, as if he supposed that the mere sound of words was 
capable of altering the nature of things ; as if there were no dis- 
tinction between good and evil, but the circumstances of persons, 
or occasions, might render it expedient or necessary to practice 
the one as well as the other. Thus the tyrant's plea of necessity 
is made to remove all bounds of law, morality, and common 
right ! But ^ Woe be to them that call evil good, and good evil !' 
Happy would it be for this nation, and the eternal souls of such 
as mislead it, if the feelings of the seamen and other laborious 
poor had no other stimulation than the recital of their unhappy 
case by such poor advocates as myself ! Are they not surely of 
the same blood — have they not the same natural knowledge of 
good and evil, to discern, and the same feelings to be sensible of 
injuries — as those who cause their sufferings ? 

It is to prevent and dissuade from acts of violence and injus- 
tice, but surely not to aggravate the sense of them, that such 
circumstances are noticed. Nay, it is charity towards the oppress- 
ors, as well as the oppressed, to endeavor to convince them of 
their error ; and how can this be done but by speaking of the 
oppressions ? It is even a crime to be silent on such occasions j 
for the Scriptures command, " Open thy mouth ; judge righteously, 
and plead the cause of the poor and needy.'^^ Nay, it is the 
cause of God himself, who has declared, " For the oppressor of 
the poor reproacheth his Maker ; but he that honoreth him hath 
mercy on the poor.'^^ 

Granville Sharp now took an increased interest in the abolition of the 
slave trade, in connection with which an instance of horrible cruelty had 
been brought to light which has hardly its parallel on the page of history. 
The ship Zong sailed from Africa, with 440 slaves on board, for the island 
of Jamaica. Many had died on the voyage, and when they got in sight of 
Jamaica, a large number were sick. " The master of the ship then called 
together the officers, and told them that, if the sick slaves died a natural 
death, the loss would fall on the owners of the ship, but if they were thrown 
alive into the sea, it would be the loss of the underwriters." Accordingly, 
they proceeded to their horrid work, and actually threw overboard into the 

sea ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY- TWO HUMAN BEINGS ALIVE! This, aS 

might be supposed, did much to arouse the nation to the character of the 
execrable traffic, and Granville Sharp never ceased laboring for its abolition 
till he saw the object of his wishes attained. 

Another event which distinguishes the life of Mr. Sharp occurred about 
the year 1787 — it was the foundation of the colony of free blacks at Sierra 

' Prov. xxxi. 9. * Ibid, xiv, 31. 



1760-1820.] SHARP. 117 

Leone. In consequence of his own benevolent exertions, a large number 
of slaves had been freed in England, and being brought up to no trade, they 
became more or less dependent on public charity. These he had sent to 
Sierra Leone at his own expense, and thus may be considered as the 
FOUNDER OF THE coLONV AT THAT PLACE. In this samc year, the society 
was formed in London for the abolition of the slave trade, of which Mr. 
Sharp was a prominent member* and in which he continued to labor with 
unabated zeal till his death. Soon after this, a number of Christians of 
different denominations conferred together about forming a Bible Society, 
which resulted in the establishment of the " British and Foreign Bible 
Society," in 1804, of which Mr. Sharp was the first chairman. " Perhaps 
it would not have been possible," says Mr. Owen, the historian of the 
society, ^' to find, throughout the British dominions, a man in whom the 
qualities requisite for the first chairman of the British and Foreign Bible 
Society were so completely united as they were in this eminent philanthro- 
pist." But it is not possible, in our limited space, to go further into detail 
in the life of this excellent man. Suffice it to say that in every good cause — 
in everything that tends to honor God and bless man — he took the deepest 
interest, and labored to the extent of his powers to the day of his death, 
which took place on the 6th of July, 1813.' 

It is unnecessary to write a eulogy upon Mr. Sharp's character. What 
it was, will be sufficiently seen from this brief sketch of his life. As a 
scholar he stood very high ; indeed, it was wonderful how he accomplished 
so much in literature, while he labored so assiduously in every prominent ob- 
ject of benevolence. But though his writings were numerous, and had 
many readers at the time, and exerted great influence, yet, as most of them 
were pamphlets, and were written for temporary purposes, they are not 
much referred to now. Among them, however, are many that are not 
ephemeral. Such are his " Remarks on Several Im.portant Prophecies," 
"Remarks on the Use of the Definite Article in the New Testament," 
"Remarks on Duelling," "An Account of the Division of the English 
Nation into Hundreds and Tithings," " On Personal Liberty," " A De- 
claration of the People's Natural Right to a Share of the Legislature," &c. 
&c. In his memoirs, is a list of sixty one publications on various subjects 

» The following epitaph upon his tomb was written by the Rev. John 
Owen : " At the age of seventy-eight, this venerable philanthropist terminated 
his career of almost unparalleled activity and usefulness, July 6, 1813, leaving 
behind him a name that will be cherished with affection and gratitude as long 
as any homage shall be paid to those principles of justice, humanity, and re- 
ligion, which, for nearly half a century, he promoted by his exertions and 
adorned by his example." The inscription on his monument in Westminster 
Abbey (which I had the pleasure of reading myself in July, 1850) is much 
longer. Two of the lines read thus — " His whole soul was in harmony 

WITH THE SACRED STRAIN," " GlORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, ON EARTH 

PEACE AND GOOD WILL TOWARDS MEN." But two more lines I read with most 
painful interest, when I thought of the inconsistency of my own country : 
" He aimed to rescue his native country from tht- guilt and 
inconsistency of employing the arm of freedom to rivet the fetters 
of bondage." 

11^ 



118 SHARP. [GEORGE III. 

of law, religion, classical literature, morals, and philanthropy. Indeed, a 
life of greater activity, usefulness, and benevolence, the world has never 
witnessed. 



THE LOVE OF GOD AND QUR NEIGHBOR.^ 

All the moral duties of the Gospel are briefly comprehended in 
two single principles of the Law of Moses, namely : The love of 
God and the love of our neighbor. Nothing, therefore, can be 
esteemed truly lawful under the Gospel, that is in the least repug- 
nant to either of these ; and we need never be at a loss to dis- 
tinguish what is, or what is not so, if we will but carefully consider 
the proportion or degree of that love, which is clearly expressed 
to be due both to God and our neighbor in these two comprehen- 
sive and eternal maxims. The degree of love due to God exceeds 
all comparison or consideration of other things ; for it must (says 
the text) be "with all" thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with 
all thy might,'^^ which necessarily implies a most fervent zeal for 
the glory of God, far exceeding all worldly considerations. And 
with respect to the degree or true proportion of love due to our 
neighbor, we have no pretence to plead ignorance, since the ap- 
pointed measure of it is contained in every man's breast — " Thou 
shall love thy neighbor as thyself ^"^ "On these two command- 
ments'' (said the Eternal Judge) "hang all the law and the Pro- 
jyhetsy^ The same Eternal Judge of mankind made also, on 
another occasion, a similar declaration concerning the sum or 
compendium ^^ of the Laio and the Prophets^^ — "All things what- 
soever ye would that men should do to you,'' said he, " do ye even 
so to them ; for this is the Law and the Prophets.^'^ This most 
excellent rule of conduct and behavior towards our neighbors, 
which includes the whole substance or spirit of "f/ie Laio and the 
Prophets,' ' so perfectly corresponds with the second great command- 
ment, to love our neighbors as ourselves, namely, to manifest our 
love by doing to them as we ourselves might icith reason and jus- 
tice expect and desire they would do unto us, that it seems intended 
like a sort of paraphrase to explain the true tenor of it ; for though 
the mode of expression is different, yet the effect of the doctrine 
is undoubtedly the same ; because the Apostle Paul has in like 

* From the tract entitled " The Law of Liberty, or Royal Law^, by which 
all Mankind will certainly be judged." 

= In these extracts from Granville Sharp, I have preserved the italics of the 
author; or, rather, \vhat he has in small capitals, I have printed in italics. 

3 Deut. vi. 5. ' Lev. xix. IS. -^ Matt. xxii. 40. ^ ibjfj. yji 12. 



1760-1820.] SHARP. 119 

manner declared this second great commandment to be the com- 
pendium of '^all the law.^' ^^ All the law," says he, " is fulfilled in 
one word, even in this : Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."^ 

It is manifest, therefore, that a violation of tlie love that is due 
to our neighhorj is a violation also of the love of God; and, on the 
contrary, the latter is perfected by a strict obedience to the former. 
"If we love one another," says the beloved Apostle, "God dwell- 
eth in us, and Jiis love is perfected in us/'^ So that the two great 
commandments appear to be reciprocally included and blended 
together in their consequences ; by which we may more readily 
perceive the propriety of our Lord's declaration, that the second 
, great commandment is like unto the first; and this reciprocal 
connection between them enables us also to comprehend the rea- 
son why the second is given alone (when both are undoubtedly 
necessary) as the grand test of Christian obedience, and as the 
sum and essence of the whole law of God. " For all the law is 
fulfilled,'" says the Apostle Paul, " in one word, (even) in this, 
Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."^ 

When, therefore, we consider that " all law^' is reduced to so 
small a compass that it may be accounted, comparatively, as one 
iDord, there is no room left for offenders to plead ignorance as an 
excuse for having violated the general laws of morality and the 
'natural rights of mankind. Let me, therefore, exhort my oppo- 
nents, as they regard their own eternal welfare, to take this sub- 
ject into their most serious consideration, and no longer refuse to 
acknowledge this glorious ^oord or maxim as the true measure 
(except a still greater measure of love is required) of all their 
actions, and more especially with respect to the present point 
before us, the legality or illegality of slavery among Christians ! 
For this question, by infallible necessity, falls under the decision 
of this very law, because it sets before us our own personal feelings 
as the proper measure or standard of our behavior to other men ] 
for tyrants, slaveholders, extortioners, and other oppressors, would 
most certainly dislike to be treated as they treat others ; so that 
this compendious law necessarily excludes the least toleration of 
slavery, or of any other oppression, which an innocent man would 
be unwilling to experience in his own person from another. 

' Gal. V. 14. 2 1 John iv. 12. " Gal. v. 14. 



120 SHARP. [GEORGE III. 



THE DUTY OF "SHOWING MERCY."* 

The absolute necessity that we are laid under to show mercy, 
that we may obtain mercy, is apparently founded on the very 
same principle, which our Lord declared to be " the Law and the 
Prophets ;" that is, the sum and essence of the whole Scriptures, 
as I have before remarked. 

And, therefore, if what has already been said be duly con- 
sidered, the propriety of citing this glorious and comprehensive 
law of liberty, in vindication of the natural liberty of mankind 
against the tyranny of slaveholders, cannot be doubted or called 
in question ; for though this supreme law virtually prohibits every 
other kind of oppression, yet its very title leads -us to a more par- 
ticular and express application of it against the toleration of slav- 
ery among ChristianSj because it seems to be thus eminently 
distinguished by the appointment of Grod himself in his Holy 
Word, as the peculiar antidote against that baneful evil {slavery) 
which is most opposite and repugnant to its glorious title — " the 
law of liberty ." This " law of liberty," this supreme, this " royal 
law," must therefore be our guide in the interpretation and ex- 
amination of all laws which relate to the rights of persons, because 
it excludes partiality, or respect of persons, and consequently re- 
moves all ground for the pretence of any absolute right of domi- 
nion inherent in the masters over their slaves. 

So that slavery is absolutely inconsistent with Christianity, 
because we cannot say of any slaveholder that he doth not to ano- 
ther what he would not have done to himself ! For he is con- 
tinually exacting involuntary labor from others without wages, 
which he would think monstrously unjust, were he himself the 
sufferer ! Nay, many of them are so besotted with avarice, that 
they are not content with reaping the whole fruit of other men's 
labor upon earth without usages,^ but would deprive their poor 
laborers even of their eternal comfort, if they could exact a little 
more work from them, by reducing them nearer to the state of 
brutes ! What I advance cannot be denied, for it is notorious 
that many masters oppose the instruction of their slaves in Chris- 
tian knowledge, and but very few promote it as they ought ; so that 
the iniquity of the ignorant slave must rest with double weight 

' From the same tract. 

2 '< Woe unto him that buildeth his house by unrighteousness, and his cham- 
bers by wrong ; that iiseth his neighhor'' s service without wages., and giveth 
him not for his tvork.'''' Jer. xxii. 13. 



1760-1820.] SHARP. 121 

on the guilty head of the owner, to fill up the measure of his 



,c. ! 



Sins 

Suppose a reverse of fortune — that an English or Scotch slave- 
holder or slavedealer is shipwrecked on the Barbary coast, and 
is retained as a slave by the Moors who seize him, or is sold 
as such to another person, according to the detestable custom of 
that savage people ! Would he esteem himself the lawful pro- 
perty of his tawny master, because the wretched police of those 
barbarians, in tolerating slavery, is similar to his own former 
practices as an American slaveholder or African trader ? Would 
he not think it cruel treatment to be esteemed a mere chattel, 
and, as such, to be ranke^ with the horses and oxen of his African 
master ? Like them, to be compelled by stripes to perform the 
most servile and abject labor ? Like them, to receive no wages, 
or other reward for his service, except a little coarse provender, 
merely to keep him in working order for his master's benefit ? 
Would he not think himself grievously injured by being forcibly 
detained and prevented from working for himself ? And would 
he not think himself absolutely robbed of the fruits of his own 
labor ? He would certainly have ample reason to lament the 
Mahometan's ignorance of the heavenly precept, " Tliou slialt love 
thy neigliboT as thyself;'' for he would then be taught, by his own 
sufferings, to comprehend the full force, extent, and meaning of 
that benevolent command, which, in his prosperity, he was never 
willing to understand, though the doctrine is so plain and obvious 
that there can be no excuse for misunderstanding it; for unless 
the slaveholder can make it appear that his slave is not his neigh- 
hor, he must necessarily acknowledge this ^^ laio of liberty'' to be 
the true measure of his conduct and behavior towards his slave 
as well as towards all other men. 

" He shall have judgment without mercy who hath shewed no 
mercyj' by which the Apostle manifestly refers to the breach of 
that particular precept which ought to regulate the conduct of 
all mankind towards each other ; and, therefore, we must acknow- 
ledge this same precept to be also the true measure or test on 
which our eternal doom will depend in that awful day when it 
*• shall be measured unto us again,' ^ according to the measure of 
our actions, as declared by the Eternal Judge himself,^ whose 
words cannot fail ! And if even a mere neglect or omission in our 
duty towards our neighbor is so offensive to our blessed Lord that 
he esteems it as a denial and affront to his own person, how much 
more offensive to him must be the actual commission of the 

» Matt. vii. 2 ; Mark iv. 24 ; Luke vi. 38. 



122 KNOWLES. [GEORGE III. 

grossest injuries, such as the exaction of an involuntary service 
from our poor brethren ^' loithout wages," and the various cruelties 
usually practised to enforce the same, which are the necessary 
and unavoidable attendants on slavery ! What a dreadful measure 
of retribution, then, may obstinate and unrepenting slaveholders 
and slavedealers justly expect from the righteous Judge ! Surely 
there is but too much cause to apprehend that Christ will one 
day j)ro/ess unto them — "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of 
the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me !"^ * * 

The African slave trade, which includes the most contemptuous 
violations of brotherly love and charity that men can be guilty 
of, is openly encouraged and promoted bjjf the British Parliament ! 
And the most detestable and oppressive slavery that ever disgraced 
even the unenlightened heathens is notoriously +olerated in the 
British Colonies by the public acts of their respective assemblies 
— by acts that have been ratified with the assent and concurrence 
of British kings ! 

The horrible guilt, therefore, which is incurred by slavedealing 
and slaveholding, is no longer confined to the few hardened in- 
dividuals that are immediately concerned in those baneful prac- 
tices, but, alas ! the lohole British empire is involved ! 

_ By the unhappy concurrence of national authority, the guilt 
is rendered national; and national guilt must inevitably draw 
down from God some tremendous national punishment (which, I 
trust, is fully demonstrated in my tract on The Law of Retribu- 
tion^, if we do not speedily '' take away the accursed thing from 
among us" — if we do not carefully reform and redress at least 
every public and notorious violation of God's "royal law,'' " the 
perfect law of liberty !" 

" Glory to God in the highest ! 
And on Earth — Peace^ 
Good will towards men!" 



HERBERT KNOWLES, 1798-1817. 

Of this most promising youth, who was born in Canterbury, in the 
year 1798, I can find no particular account, except the following con- 
cluding paragraph of an article in the twenty-first volume of the " London 
Quarterly Review," upon the " Cemeteries and Catacombs of Paris:" — 

» Matt. XXV. 40. 



1760-1820.] KNOWLES. 123 

" We cannot close this article more appropriately than by a churchyard 
poem, written by a youth who soon afterwards was laid in the grave him- 
self. His life had been eventful and unfortunate, till his extraordinary 
merits were discovered by persons capable of appreciating, and willing 
and able to assist him. He was then placed under a kind and able in- 
structor, and arrangements had been made for supporting him at the uni- 
versity ; but he had not enjoyed that prospect many weeks, before it 
pleased God to remove him to a better world. The reader will remember 
that they are the verses of a schoolboy, who had not long been taken from 
one of the lowest stations of life, and he will then judge what might have 
been expected from one who was capable of writing with such strength 
and originality upon the tritest of all subjects." 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. 

" It is good for us to be here : if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles : 
one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." — Matthew xvii. 4. 

Metbinks it is good to be here ; 
If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom? 

Nor Elias nor Moses appear; 
But the shadows of eve, that encompass with gloom 
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no! 
Affrighted, he shrinketh away ; 

For see, they would pin him below 
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To Beauty? Ah no ! she forgets 
The charms which she wielded before ; 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets, 
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, 
For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trappings which dizen the proud 1 

Alas ! they are all laid aside, 
And here's neither dress nor adornments allowed, 
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. 

To Riches'? Alas ! 'tis in vain ; 
Who hid in their turns have been hid ; 

The treasures are squandered again ; 
And here in the grave are all metals forbid 
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 



124 BROWN. [GEORGE III. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah no! tViey have withered and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above. 
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 

Unto sorrow ? — the Dead cannot grieve ; 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which Compassion itself could relieve. 
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear ; 
Peace ! peace is the watchword, the only one here. 

Unto Death, to whom, monarchs must bow 1 
Ah no ! for his empire is known, 

And here there are trophies enow ! 
Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build. 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! 

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled ; 
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. 



THOMAS BROWN, 1778-1820. 

Thomas Brown, the distinguished metaphysician, was born at Kirkma- 
breck,Mn Scotland, and was the youngest son of the Rev. Samuel Brown, 
minister of the parish. His father having died when he was an infant, he 
was placed by his maternal uncle, from his seventh till his fourteenth year, 
at different schools near London, in all of which he made great progress in 
classical literature. Upon the death of his uncle in 1792, he returned to his 
mother's house in Edinburgh, and entered as a student in the university. 
His attention was at once directed to metaphysical studies by Dugald 
Stewart's "Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind" being put 
into his hands, and the next winter he attended Mr. Stewart's class. Here 
he immediately distinguished himself by his acute and profound observations 
upon this subject, and a friendship commenced between the illustrious 
teacher and his no less illustrious pupil which continued through life. 

In 1798, he published " Observations on the Zoonomia of Dr. Darwin," 
which was considered a remarkable production for one so young. In 1803, 
having attended the usual medical course, he took his degree of Doctor of 
Medicine. In the same year he brought out the first edition of his poems, 

' In the county of Kirkcudbright, in the south-west part of Scotland, about 
eighty miles south-west of Edinburgh, near Solway Frith. 



1760-1820.] BROWN. - 125 

in two volumes, which exhibit marks of an original mind, and a refined 
taste. His next publication was an examination of the principles of Mr. 
Hume respecting causation, which Sir James Mackintosh pronounced the 
finest model in mental philosophy since Berkeley and Hume. A second 
edition was published in 1806, and a third in 1818, so enlarged as to be al- 
most a new work, under the title of " An Inquiry into the Relation of Cause 
and Effect." 

Up to the year 1808, Dr. Brown continued a practising physician in Edin- 
burgh, though it was not the calling suited to his taste and studies. This 
year a circumstance occurred that placed him in a situation that entirely 
harmonized with his inclinations. The health of Professor Stewart had 
been declining for some time, and he applied to Dr. Brown to supply his 
place for a short time, with lectures of his own composition. He did so, 
and gave universal satisfaction ; and in 1810 he was, agreeably to Mr. Stew- 
art's wishes, appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy, in conjunction with 
him. He entered upon his duties with great ardor and untiring industry, 
and prepared for his students that series of lectures on which his fame rests. 
In the summer of 1814, he published anonymously his poem entitled " The 
Paradise of Coquettes," which met with a very favorable reception; and 
in the next year two others, "The Wanderer of Norway," and "The 
Bower of Spring." In the autumn of 1819, he commenced his text-book 
for the benefit of his students. He was then in good health, but in De- 
cember he became indisposed, and during the summer recess his health 
seemed evidently to be failing, " When he again met his class in the fall, 
his lecture unfortunately happened to be one which he was never able to 
deliver without being much moved, and from the manner in which he re- 
cited the very affecting lines from Beattie's ' Hermit,' it was conceived by 
many that the emotion he displayed arose from a foreboding of his own ap- 
proaching dissolution."* 

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; 

I mourn, but ye woodla-nds I mourn not for you ; 
For morn is approaching your charms to restore, 

Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew : 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 

Kind nature the embryo blossom shall save; 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? 

0, when will it dawn on the night of the grave! 

This was the last lecture he ever delivered. Day after day he became 
weaker, and he died on the 2d of April, 1820. 

The most prominent features of Dr. Brown's character were great gentle- 
ness, kindness, and delicacy of mind, united with great independence of spirit, 
a strong love of liberty, and a most ardent desire for the diffusion of know- 
ledge, and virtue, and happiness among mankind. The predominating qua- 
lity of his intellectual character was, unquestionably, his power of analysis, 
in which he had few equals. In his prose he has shown great powers of 

' << Encyclopaedia Britannica," vol. v. 

12 



128 BROWN. [GEORGE III. 

eloquence. His poetry has never been popular, though it contains very 
many choice passages. His character as a philosopher will chiefly rest 
upon his " Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind," which were 
published in two volumes, after his death. A more instructive and inte- 
resting book can hardly be found in the compass of English literature. It 
is full of passages of exquisite beauty and lofty eloquence. 



THE POWER OF HABIT. 

That the frequent repetition of any action increases the tend- 
ency to it, all of you must have experienced in yourselves, in 
innumerable cases, of little importance, perhaps, but sufl&ciently 
indicative of the influence; and there are few of you, probably, 
who have not had an opportunity of remarking in others the fatal 
power of habits of a very different kind. In the corruption of a 
great city, it is scarcely possible to look around, without perceiving 
some warning example of that blasting and deadening influence, 
before which, everything that was generous and benevolent in the 
heart has withered, while everything which was noxious has flou- 
rished with more rapid maturity; like those plants, which can 
extend their roots, indeed, even in a pure soil, and fling out a few 
leaves amid balmy airs and odors, but which burst out in all their 
luxuriance only from a soil that is fed with constant putrescency, 
and in an atmosphere which it is poison to inhale. It is not vice — 
not cold and insensible and contented vice, that has never known 
any better feelings — which we view with melancholy regret. It 
is virtue — at least what once was virtue — that has yielded pro- 
gressively and silently to an influence scarcely perceived, till it has 
become the very thing which it abhorred. Nothing can be more 
just than the picture of this sad progress, described in the well- 
known lines of Pope : — 

" Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, 
That, to be hated, needs but to be seen; 
Yet, seen too oft, familiar with her face, 
We first endure, then pity, then embrace."' 

In the slow progress of some insidious disease, which is scarcely 
regarded by its cheerful and unconscious victim, it is mournful to 
mark the smile of gaiety as it plays over that very bloom, which 
is not the freshness of health, but the flushing of approaching 
mortality, amid studies perhaps just opening into intellectual ex- 
cellence, and hopes, and plans of generous ambition, that are never 

' Essay on Man, Ep. 11. v. 217-220. 



1760-1820.] BROWN. 127 

to be fulfilled. But how much more painful is it to behold that 
equally insidious, and far more desolating progress, with which 
guilty passion steals upon the heart — when there is still sufficient 
virtue to feel remorse, and to sigh at the remembrance of purer 
years, but not sufficient to throw off the guilt, which is felt to be 
oppressive, and to return to that purity in which it would again, 
in its bitter moments, gladly take shelter, if only it had energy 
to vanquish the almost irresistible habits that would tear it back ! 

" Crimes lead to crimes, and link so straight, 
What first was accident, at last is fate ; 
The unhappy servant sinks into a slave, 
And virtue's last sad strugglings cannot save." — Mailet. 

We must not conceive, however, that habit is powerful only in 
strengthening what is evil; though it is this sort of operation 
which, of course, forces itself more upon our#observation and 
memory — like the noontide darkness of the tempest, that is remem- 
bered, when the calm, and the sunshine, and the gentle shower are 
forgotten. There can be no question that the same principle, 
which confirms and aggravates what is evil, strengthens and che- 
rishes also what is good. The virtuous, indeed, do not require the 
influence of habitual benevolence or devotion to force them, as it 
were, to new acts of kindness to man, or to new sentiments of 
gratitude to God. But the temptations, to which even virtue 
might sometimes be in danger of yielding in the commencement of 
its delightful progress, become powerless and free from peril when 
that progress is more advanced. There are spirits which, even on 
earth, are elevated above that little scene of mortal ambition with 
which their benevolent wishes, for the sufferers there, are the single 
tie that connects them still. All with them is serenity; the dark- 
ness and the storm are beneath them. They have only to look 
down, with generous sympathy, on those who have not yet risen 
so high ; and to look up, with gratitude, to that heaven which is 
above their head, and which is almost opening to receive them. 

Lecture xliii. 



BENEVOLENCE. . 

That benevolence, the moral link which connects man with man, 
is in itself virtuous, may indeed appear, to some very rigid ques- 
tioners of every feeling, to require proof; but it can appear to 
require it only to those who deny altogether the very moral dis- 
tinction of virtue and vice, in that general scepticism which has 
been already fully considered by us. Of those who allow virtue 



128 BROWN. [GEORGE III. 

to be more than a name, there is no one who will refuse to bene- 
volent exertions the praise of this excellence — no one who can 
read the history of any of those heroes of the moral scene, whose 
life has been one continued deed of generosity to mankind, without 
feeling that, if there be virtue on earth, there has been virtue in 
that bosom which has suffered much, or dared much, that the 
world might be free from any of the ills which disgraced it. The 
strong lines, with which the author of the " Botanic Garden" con- 
cludes his praise of one of the most illustrious of these heroes of 
benevolence, scarcely express more than we truly feel on the con- 
templation of such a character. It does seem as if man, when 
he acts as man should act, is a being of some Mgher order than 
the frail, erring creatures among whom we ourselves pass a life, 
that, with all its occasional acts of generosity and self-command, 
is still, like theirs, a life of frailty and error : — 



CHARACTER OF HOWARD. 

And now, Philanthropy ! thy rays divine 

Dart round the globe, from Zembla to the Line ; 

O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light 

Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night. 

From realm to realm, with cross or crescent crown'd, 

Where'er Mankind and Misery are found, 

O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of snow, 

Thy Howard, journeying, seeks the house of woe. 

Down many a winding step to dungeons dank, 

Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank; 

To caves bestrew'd with many a mouldering bone, 

And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan ; 

Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclose, 

No sunbeam enters, and no zephyr blows — 

He treads, inemulous of fame or wealth, 

Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health : 

With soft assuasive eloquence expands 

Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching hands ; 

Leads stern-eyed Justice to the dark domains. 

If not to sever, to relax the chains; 

Or guides awaken'd Mercy through the gloom. 

And shows the prison, sister to the tomb ; 

Gives to her babes the self-devoted wife, 

To her fond husband liberty and life. 

The spirits of the good, who bend from high 

Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye, 

When first array'd in Virtue's purest robe, 

They saw her Howard traversing the globe, 



1760-1820.] BROWN. 129 

Mistook a mortal for an angel-guest, 
And ask'd what seraph foot the earth imprest. 
— Onward he moves. Disease and death retire — 
And murmuring demons hate him and admire.' 

The benevolent spirit, as its object is the happiness of all who 
are capable of feeling happiness, is as universal in its efforts as 
are the miseries which are capable of being relieved, or the enjoy- 
ments which it is possible to extend to a single human being, 
within the reach of its efforts, or almost of its wishes. When we 
speak of benefactions, indeed, we think only of one species of good 
action; and charity itself, so comprehensive in its etymological 
meaning, is used as if it were nearly synonymous with the mere 
opening of the purse. But ^'it is not money only which the 
unfortunate need; and they are but sluggards in well-doing," as 
Rousseau strikingly expresses the character of this indolent bene- 
volence, '^who know to do good only when they have a purse in 
their hand." Consolations, counsels, cares, friendship, protection, 
are so many resources which pity leaves us for the assistance of 
the indigent, even though wealth should be wanting. The op- 
pressed often continue to be oppressed, merely because they are 
without an organ to render their complaints known to those who 
have the power of succor. It requires sometimes but a word 
which tliey cannot say; a reason which they know not how to atate; 
the opening of a single door of a great man, through which they 
are not permitted to pass, to obtain for them all of which they are 
in need. The intrepid support of a disinterested virtue is, in such 
cases, able to remove an infinity of obstacles: and the eloquence 
of a single good man, in the cause of the injured, can appal tyranny 
itself in the midst of its power. 



THE GOODNESS OF GOD. 

The goodness of God is, of all subjects of inquiry, that which 
is most interesting to us. It is the goodness of him to whom we 
owe, not merely that we exist, but that we are happy or miserable 
now^ and according to which we are to hope or fear for a future, 
that is not limited to a few years, but extends through all the ages 
of immortality. Have we, then, reason to believe that God is 
good? that the designing power, which it is impossible for us not 
to perceive and admit, is a power of cruelty or kindness? Of 
whom is this the question ? of those whose whole life has been a 

1 Darwin's Botanic Garden. 
12* 



130 BROWN. [GEORGE III. 

continued display of the bountiful provision of Heaven from the 
first moment at which life began. 

It is the inquiry of those who, by the goodness of that God 
whose goodness they question, found, on their very entrance into 
this scene of life, sources of friendship already provided for them, 
merely because they had wants that already required friendship — 
whose first years were years of cheerfulness almost uninterrupted, 
as if existence were all that is necessary for happiness — to whom, 
in after life, almost every exertion which they were capable of 
making was a pleasure, and almost every object which met their 
eye a sense of direct gratification, or of knowledge, which was 
itself delightful — who were not formed to be only thus selfishly 
happy, but seemed called, by some propitious voice af nature, to 
the diiFusion of happiness, by the enjoyment which arose from that 
very diffusion — and warned from injuring others, by the pain which 
accompanied the very wish of doing evil, and the still greater pain 
of remorse, when evil had at any time been intentionally inflicted. 
Nor is it to be counted a slight part of the goodness of God that 
he has given us that very goodness as an object of our thought, 
and has thus opened to us, inexhaustibly, a pure and sublime plea- 
sure in the contemplation of those divine qualities which are them- 
selves the source of all the pleasures that we feel. 

Such is the goodness of God, in its relation to mankind^ in 
infancy, in manhood, in every period of life. But we are not to 
think that the goodness of God extends only to man. The hum- 
blest life, which man despises, is not despised by him who made 
man of nothing, and all things of nothing, and "whose tender 
mercies are over all his works.^^ 

Has God, thou fool, work'd solely for thy good ? 
Tliy joy. thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? 
Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 
For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn. 
Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? 
Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 
Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? 
Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. 
The bounding steed you pompously bestride 
Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. 
Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? 
The birds of Heaven shall vindicate their grain. ^ 

In vain do we strive to represent to ourselves all nature as our 
own, and only our own. The happiness which we see the other 
races around us enjoying is a proof that it is theirs as well as ours; 

» Pope's Essay on Man, Ep. III. v. 27-38. 



1760-1820.] BROWN. 131 

and that he, who has given us the dominion of all things that live 
on earth, has not forgotten the creatures which he has intrusted 
to our sway. Even in the deserts, in which our sway is not ac- 
knowledged, where the lion, if man approached, would see no lord 
before whom to tremble, but a creature far feebler than the ordi- 
nary victims of his hunger, or his wrath — in the dens and the 
wildernesses, there are pleasures which owe nothing to iis, but 
which are not the less felt by the fierce hearts that inhabit the 
dreadful recesses. The?/, too, have their happiness; because they 
too were created by a Power that is good — and of whose benefi- 
cent design, in forming the world, with all its myriads of myriads 
of varied races of inhabitants, the happiness of these was a part. 

*'Nor," as it has been truly said, ^'is the design abortive. It 
is a happy world after all. The air, the earth, the water, teem 
with delighted existence. In a spring noon, or a summer evening, 
on whichever side I turn my eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd 
upon my view. ' The insect youth are on the wing.' Swarms 
of new-born flies are trying their pinions in the air. Their sportive 
motions, their wanton mazes, their gratuitous activity, their con- 
tinual change of place without use or purpose, testify their joy 
and the exultation which they feel in their lately discovered facul- 
ties. A bee, amongst the flowers in spring, is one of the most 
cheerful objects that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be 
all enjoyment; so busy and so pleased: yet it is only a specimen 
of insect life, with which, by reason of the animal being half do- 
mesticated, we happen to be better acquainted than we are with 
that of others.''^ 

Such is the seemingly happy existence of that minute species 
of life which is so abundant in every part of the great scene in 
which we dwell. I shall not attempt to trace the happiness up- 
ward, through all the alacrity, and seeming delight in existence, of 
the larger animals — an ever-flowing pleasure, of which those who 
have had the best opportunities of witnessing multitudes of gre- 
garious animals feeding together, and rejoicing in their common 
pasture, will be the best able to appreciate the amount. All have 
means of enjoyment within themselves; and, if man be the happy 
sovereign of the creation, he is not the sovereign of miserable 
subjects. 

Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine; 
Earth for whose use'? Pride answers, "tis for mine. 
For me, kind Nature wakes her genial power, 
Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower; 

' Paley's Nat. Theol. 8vo. p. 392. 



132 BROWN. [GEORGE III. 

Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew 
The juice nectarious, and the balmy dew ; 
For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings ; 
For me, heaUh gushes from a thousand springs ; 
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; 
My footstool earth — my canopy the skies. ^ 

All tliese sources of blessings^ that are infinite as the living 
beings that enjoy them, were made, indeed, for man, whose pride 
makes the arrogant exclusive assumption — but they were made 
also for innumerable beings whose very existence is unknown to 
man, and who know not, in their turn, the existence of him who 
supposes that all these means of happiness are for himself alone. 
There is, at every moment, an amount of happiness on the earth, 
of which the happiness of all mankind is an element indeed, but 
only one of many elements, that perhaps bears but a small pro- 
portion to the rest; and it is not of this single element that we 
are to think, when we consider the benevolence of that God who 
has willed the whole. 

Of Dr. Brown's poetry, "The Paradise of Coquettes" has been by far 
the most popular, though it is now but little read. Of it, the " Edinburgh 
Review"^ thus speaks: "It is by far the best and most brilliant imitation 
of Pope that has appeared since the time of that great writer ; with all his 
point, polish, and nicely-balanced versification, as well as his sarcasm and 
witty malice : deficient, indeed, in the strong sense and compressed reason- 
ing by which he is distinguished, but possessing all the brightness and 
elegance and vivacity of his lighter and more exquisite productions ; and 
almost entitled, if it were not for its injudicious difl^useness and the defect 
of its machinery, to take its place by the side of the ' Rape of the Lock.' " 

The poem is in nine parts. The first part is prefatory, and has not much 
connection with the rest of the poem. The second part discovers to us 
" Zephyra," just returned at daybreak from an evening party; mortified 
at having been eclipsed by the charms of a late- arriving rival ; and weighing 
in her bosom the pleasures of a coquette's life against the endless inquiet- 
udes and disappointments with which it is attended. The latter, she finds, 
vastly preponderate ; and just as she has passed a solemn vow of abjuration 
of coquetry, a person called the Genius of Coquetry appears — pardons her 
hasty resolve — and, by dint of flattery, wins her back to her pristine alle- 
giance. With true feminine curiosity, she implores the deity to make use 
of his omniscient faculties in disclosing to her all the conquests she is to 
make : this he declines to do, but hints to her that they will be all that the 
most inordinate ambition could desire. The following is a part of the 
coquette's repining: — 

' Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 131-140. » Vol. xxiv. p. 397. 



1760-1820.] BROWN. 133 



SOLILOQUY AFTER THE BALL. 

How did I hope to vex a thousand eyes! 

Oh gloriorus malice, dearer than the prize! 

Yet well was taught my brow that pride serene 

Which looks no triumph where no doubt had been ; 

That easy scorn, all tranquil as before. 

Which speaks no insult, and insults the more ; 

And with calin air, the surest to torment. 

Steals angry Spite's last torment, to resent. 

Why was the triumph given? Too flattering joy! 
Frail hour which one frail minute could destroy! 
He came — oh Hope! he hasten'd to my seat; 
I saw, and almost dream'd him at my feet, 
Close by my side a gay attendant slave, 
The glance, which thousands sought, to none he gave; 
Scarce bow'd to nodding bevies when we walk'd, 
Smil'd when I smil'd, and talk'd, and laugh'd, and talk'd; 
Held my light fan with more than woman's grace, 
And shook the tiny zephyr o'er my face : 
Why did I heedless trust the flattering sign. 
As if no fan he e'er had broke but mine ! 
Ah, simple fool — yet wherefore nurse the smart? 
The bauble be may break, but not my heart. 

The third canto begins in an ambiguous tone, somewhat between raillery 
and apology for 



THE CHANGEFULNESS OF WOMAN. 

Ye watchful sprites, who make e'en man your care. 

And sure more gladly hover o'er the fair. 

Who grave on adamant all changeless things, 

The smiles of courtiers and the frowns of kings ! 

Say to what softer texture ye impart 

The quick resolves of woman's trusting heart; 

Joys of a moment, wishes of an hour. 

The short eternity of Passion's power. 

Breath'd in vain oaths that pledge with generous zeal 

E'en more of fondness than they e'er shall feel, 

Light fleeting vows that never reach above. 

And all the guileless changefulness of love ! 

Is summer's leaf the record ? Does it last 

Till withering autumn blot it with his blast? 

Or frailer still, to fade ere ocean's ebb, 

Grav'd on some filmy insect's thinnest web, 

Some day-fly's wing that dies and ne'er has slept, 

Lives the light vow scarce longer than 'tis kept? 



134 HUNTER. [GEORGE IV. 

Ah ! call not perfidy her fickle choice ! 
Ah! find not falsehood in an angel's voice? 
True to one word, and constant to one aim, 
Let man's hard soul be stubborn as his frame; 
But leave sweet woman's form and mind at will, 
To bend and vary, and be graceful still. 



WOMAN'S CONVERSATIONAL POWERS. 

Yes, Woman, yes ! — Though in his pompous school, 

Man proud may learn to think and talk by rule, 

There is the native eloquence, whose grace 

Flows true to every hour and every place — 

That with a swain familiar can recall 

Scenes, persons, things, and spread delight on all ; 

Or find, as fluent, if unknown the youth. 

In mutual ignorance, gay stores of truth : 

No theme thou need'st accordant thoughts to strike, 

On something, nothing, all things sage alike ; 

Enough to wake thy eloquence and lore, 

Ears that can list, and eyes that can adore. 



ANNE HUNTER, 1742—1821. 

Anne Huntek, the wife of the celebrated anatomist, John Hunter, and 
the daughter of Mr. Robert Home, was born in the year 1742. She enjoyed 
the friendship of Mrs. Elizabeth Carter and Mrs. Montagu, and was no 
inconsiderable member of that circle of literary ladies who composed their 
society. She excelled in lyric poetry, and two of her songs, " My mother 
bids me braid my hair," and " The Mermaid's Song," are embalmed in 
the eternal melodies of Haydn. She died in London on the 7th of Janu- 
ary, 1821. Her poetry displays much elegance and feeling, of which the 
following are fair specimens : — 



TO-MORROW. 

How heavy falls the foot of Time ! 
How slow the lingering quarters chime, 

Through anxious hours of long delay! 
In vain we watch the silent glass, 
More slow the sands appear to pass. 

While disappointment marks their way. 



1820-1830.] HUNTER. 135 

To-morrow — still the phantom flies, 
Flitting away before our eyes, 

Eludes our grasp, is pass'd and gone; 
Daughter of hope, Night o'er thee flings 
The shadow of her raven wings. 

And in the morning thou art flown ! 

Delusive sprite ! from day to day, 
We still pursue thy pathless way : 

Thy promise, broken o'er and o'er, 
Man still believes, and is thy slave ; 
Nor ends the chase but in the grave, 

For there to-morroiv is no more. 



THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. 

When hope lies dead within the heart. 
By secret sorrow long concealed, 

We shrink lest looks or words impart 
What may not be revealed. 

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep ; 

To speak when one would silent be ; 
To wake when one would wish to sleep, 

And wake to agony. 

Yet such the lot for thousands cast 
Who wander in this world of care. 

And bend beneath the bitter blast, 
To save them from despair. 

Yet nature waits her guests to greet. 
Where disappointment cannot come ; 

And time leads with unerring feet 
The weary wanderer home. 



TO MY DAUGHTER, 
On being separated from her on her marriage. 

Dear to my heart as life's warm stream. 
Which animates this mortal clay. 

For thee I court the waking dream. 
And deck with smiles the future day ; 

And thus beguile the present pain 

With hopes that we shall meet again. 

Yet will it be as when the past 

'Twin'd every joy and care and thought, 
And o'er our minds one mantle cast 

Of kind affections finely wrought ? 
Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain. 
For so we ne'er can meet again ! 



136 KNOX. [GEORGE IV. 

May he who claims thy tender heart 

Deserve its love, as I have done! 
For, kind and gentle as thou art, 

If so belov'd, thou'rt fairly won. 
Bright may the sacred torch remain, 
And cheer thee till we meet again! 



VICESIMUS KNOX, 1752-1821. 

VicESTMUS Knox, son of the Rev. Vicesimus Knox, was born on the 8th 
of December, 1752. After completing the usual course of preparatory 
study, he entered St. John's College, Oxford. While here, and before 
he took his bachelor's degree, he wrote and published anonymously many 
of those "Essays" which have chiefly contributed to his fame. They 
were very much admired, and a second edition was soon called for, which 
he very much enlarged and prefixed his name to them, under the title of 
" Essays, Moral and Literary." These essays are written in a forcible 
and elegant style, formed on the purest classical models, and contain most 
valuable directions for the cultivation of the understanding, and the con- 
duct of life ; and what recommends them still more is the rich fund of 
classical and miscellaneous entertainment they afford.' 

From college, after having regularly taken the degrees of bachelor and 
master of arts, Mr. Knox was elected, in 1778, to succeed his father as 
head master of Tunbridge School. He held this post of honor and useful- 
ness for thirty-three years, or till 1811, when he, in turn, was succeeded 
by his son. His next publication was a work entitled " Liberal Education, 
or a Practical Treatise on the Methods of acquiring Useful and Polite 
Learning." This was well received, and was soon republished in our 
country, and was translated on the continent. In 1788, he published 
a series of miscellaneous papers under the title of " Winter Evenings," 
which, though not equal, on the whole, to the " Essays," abound in fine 
writing and excellent moral instruction. In his introductory essay, he 
thus comments on the title he had chosen, and speaks in praise of 

* "Few publications have been more popular, and more deservedly so, 
than these instructive Essays, which have passed through sixteen editions. 
The subjects on which Dr. Knox has expatiated in these volumes are numerous 
and well chosen, and they uniformly possess a direct tendency either to im- 
prove the head or amend the heart. To persons of every description, but 
especially to young persons, the essays of our author are invaluable ; their 
first praise is, that they recommend, in a most fascinating manner, all that is 
good and great ; and secondly, they are in a high degree calculated to form 
the taste, and excite a spirit of literary enthusiasm." 

Drake'' $ Essays, vol. v. p. 366. 



1820-1830.] KNOX. , 137 



A WINTER EVENING. 

Books enable the imagination to create a summer in the midst 
of frost and snow ; and, with the assistance of culinary fire, whose 
comfortable warmth supplies, round the parlor hearth, the ab- 
sence of the sun, I believe the winter is considered by few as less 
pleasurable, upon the whole, than the season of soft breezes and 
solar effulgence. 

The student shuts the door while the chill wind whistles round 
his room, and the rain beats upon the tiles and pavements, stirs 
his fire, snuffs his candle, throws himself into his elbow chair, and 
defies the elements. If he chooses to transport himself to warm 
climates, to regions delightful as the vale of Tempe, or even to 
riot in all the enchanting scenes of Elysium, he has only to take 
a volume from his bookcase, and, with, every comfort of ease and 
safety at home, he can richly feast his capacious imagination. 

For myself, I must acknowledge that, though I have no ob- 
jection to games in moderation, I have, at the same time, no taste 
for them. They appear to me too dull and unideal to afford a 
thinking man, who values his leisure, an adequate return of 
amusement for the time they engross. In a rural retirement, 
what could I do in the winter evenings, when no society inter- 
rupted, but read or write ? I have done both in a vicissitude 
pleasant to myself, and as my inclination or my ideas of propriety 
suggested. In these employments I have found my time pass 
away, not only innocently, but pleasantly ; and most of these lu- 
cubrations are literally what their title insinuates, the produce of 
the Winter Evenings. 

After " The Winter Evenings," appeared " Letters to a Young Noble- 
man;" "Christian Philosophy," in two vols.; "Considerations on the 
Lord's Supper," in one vol.; and a pamphlet " On the National Import- 
ance of Classical Education." He also pubhshed, for the use of his school, 
expurgated editions of Horace and Juvenal, and that series of selections from 
the works of the best English authors, well known as " Elegant Extracts" 
and " Elegant Epistles," After a life of great usefulness and industry, he 
died at Tunbridge, on the 6th of September, 1821. His literary reputation 
was deservedly great ; but, what is still better, his whole character was a 
model of Christian virtue, and all his works were calculated to improve the 
heart as well as inform the mind. 

13 



138 KNOX. [GEORGE IV. 



ON THE PERIODICAL ESSAYISTS. 

I am not in the number of those politicians who estimate 
national good merely by extent of territory, richness of revenue, 
and commercial importance. I rather think that pure religion, 
good morals, fine taste, solid literature, and all those things 
which, while they contribute to elevate human nature, contribute 
also to render private life dignified and comfortable, constitute 
that true national good to which politics, war, and commerce are 
but subordinate and instrumental. Indeed, one cannot always 
say so much in their praise ; for, after all the noise which they 
make in the world, they are often injurious to everything for 
which society appears, in the eye of reason, to have been originally 
instituted. 

Under this conviction, I.cannot help thinking that such writers 
as an Addison and a Steele have caused a greater degree of na- 
tional good than a Marlborough and a Walpole. They have 
successfully recommended such qualities as adorn human nature, 
and such as tend also, in their direct consequences, to give gran- 
deur and stability to empire. For, in truth, it is personal 
merit and private virtue which can alone preserve a free country 
in a prosperous state, and indeed render its prosperity desirable. 
How are men really the better for national prosperity when, as a 
nation grows rich, its morals are corrupted, mutual confidence 
lost, and debauchery and excess of all kinds pursued with such 
general and unceasing ardor, as seduces the mind to a state of 
abject slavery and impotence ? If I am born in a country where 
my mind and body are almost sure to be corrupted by the influ- 
ence of universal example, and my soul deadened in all its nobler 
energies, what avails it that the country extends its dominion 
beyond the Atlantic and the Ganges ? It had been better for me 
that I had not been born than born in such a country. 

Moralists, therefore, who have the art to convey their instruc- 
tion successfully, are the most valuable patriots and the truest 
benefactors to their country. And among these I place in the 
highest rank, because of the more extensive diffusion of their 
labors, the successful writers of periodical lucubrations. 

Among these, the ^'Tatler'^ is the first in the order of time who 
will claim attention. For those which preceded were entirely 
political and controversial, and soon sunk into oblivion when the 
violence of party which produced them had subsided. But the 
general purpose of the "Tatler," as Steele himself declares, was to 



1820-1830.] KNOX. 139 

expose the false arts of life, to pull off the disguises of cunning, 
vanity, and ostentation, and to recommend a general simplicity 
in our dress, discourse, and behavior. 

The general state of conversation and of literary improvement 
among those who called themselves gentlemen, at the time in 
which the " Tatler" was written, was low and contemptible. 
The men who, from their rank, fortune, and appearance, claimed 
the title of gentlemen, affected a contempt for learning, and 
seemed to consider ignorance as a mark of gentility. . The '' Tat- 
ler" gradually opened their understandings^ and furnished matter 
for improving conversation. 

Addison, who had appeared with peculiar lustre in the " Tat- 
ler," was to shine again in the " Spectator" with still brighter 
and more permanent glory. The great charm of his diction, which 
has delighted readers of every class, appears to me to be a certain 
natural sweetness, ease, and delicacy, which no affectation can 
attain. Truths of all kinds, the sublime and the familiar, the 
serious and the comic, are taught in that peculiar style which 
raises in the mind a placid and equable flow of emotions ; that 
placidness and equability which are in a particular manner adapted 
to give permanency to all our pleasurable feelings. A work 
which warms our passions, and hurries us on with the rapid vehe- 
mence of its style, may be read once or twice with pleasure; but 
it is the more tranquil style which is most frequently in unison 
with our minds, and which, therefore, on the tenth repetition, as 
Horace says, will afford fresh pleasure. Addison rejected that 
levity and medley of matter which often appeared disadvantage- 
ously in a single paper of the "Tatler,'' and usually wrote regular 
treatises on the most important and most interesting subjects of 
taste and morality. Such subjects will never be out of date ; but 
the strictures on the dresses and diversions of the times, whatever 
merit they possessed, could not have rendered the work immortal. 
There are, indeed, many papers of very moderate merit ; but it 
could not be otherwise when the publication was daily, and the 
whole number considerably more than half a thousand. Neither 
Addison's other engagements, nor his abilities, great as they con- 
fessedly were, could have allowed him to compose every specula- 
tion. 

With respect to the "Rambler," if I have prejudices concern- 
ing it, they are all in its favor. I read it at a very early age 
with delight, and, I hope, with improvement. Everything laud- 
able and useful in the conduct of life is recommended in it, often 
in a new manner, and always with energy, and with a dignity 
which commands attention. When I consider it with a view to 



140 KNOX. [GEORGE IV. 

its effects on the generality of the people, on those who stand 
most in need of this mode of instruction, it appears greatly in* 
ferior to the easy and natural " Spectator.^^ Those elegant and 
expressive words derived from the Latin, which are called by 
common readers hard words, and which abound in the " Rambler,'^ 
will prevent the greater number from entering on the perusal. 
And, indeed, with all my prepossessions in favor of this writer, I 
cannot but agree with the opinion of the public which has con- 
demned in his style an affected appearance of pomposity. 

The ^^ Adventurer" is an imitation of the " Rambler." It is 
written with remarkable spirit, and with the benevolent design 
of promoting all that is good and amiable. The stories make a 
very conspicuous figure in this work, and tend to diffuse its influ- 
ence among those readers who might probably have been deterred 
from reading it had it consisted only of didactic discourses, writ- 
ten in a style approaching to the lexiphantic. Triplets were 
greatly in fashion when the '^ Adventurer" was published, and it 
is, therefore, no wonder that they abound in it. Grreat indeed 
are its merits in every view ; but I cannot discover, in the diction, 
the sweetness and the delicacy of Addison. 

The '' World" is written in a style different from all the pre- 
ceding. There is a certain gaiety and gentility diffused over it 
which gives it a peculiar grace when considered only as a book 
of amusement. That it inculcates morality with any peculiar 
force, cannot be said. But it gives many valuable instructions 
without assuming the solemn air of a severe moralist. 

The " Connoisseur" abounds in wit and a very pleasant species 
of humor. The book, however, is rather diverting than improv- 
ing J yet, under the form of irony, many useful truths are con- 
veyed with great success. There is no elevation of sentiment, 
and no sublime discourses on religion and morality ; but there is 
a great deal of good sense expressed with good-humored drollery. 
The authors were by nature possessed of wit, and had acquired a 
very considerable knowledge of the classics. 

Every one of these works is calculated to promote good sense 
and virtue ; and whatever may be the defects of each, the variety 
of their manners is well suited to the variety of dispositions and 
of tastes which occur in the mass of mankind. They have been 
found experimentally to improve life as well as conversation. 
And, with respect to the improvement of conversation, " nothing 
is so proper for this purpose," says the solid Johnson in his pre- 
face to Addison's Poems, "as the frequent publication of short 
papers which we read not as study but amusement. If the sub- 



1820-1830.] KNOX. 141 

ject be slight, the treatise likewise is short. The busy may find 
time^ and the idle may find patience. ^^ 

Essays, No. xxviii. 



ON THE HAPPINESS OE DOMESTIC LIFE. 

An active life is exposed to many evils which cannot reach a 
state of retirement ; but it is found, by the uniform experience 
of mankind, to be, upon the whole, productive of the most happi- 
ness. All are found desirous of avoiding the listlessness of .an 
unemployed condition. Without the incentives of ambition, of 
fame, of interest, of emulation, men eagerly rush upon hazardous 
and painful enterprises. There is a quick succession of ideas, a 
warm flow of spirits, an animated sensation, consequent on exer- 
tion, which amply compensates the chagrin of disappointment 
and the fatigue of attention. 

One of the most useful effects of action is that it renders 
repose agreeable. Perpetual rest is pain of the most intolerable 
kind. But a judicious interchange of rest and motion, of indolent 
enjoyment and strenuous efforts, gives a true relish of life, which, 
when too tranquil, is insipid, and when too much agitated, dis- 
gustful. 

This sweet repose, which is necessary to restore, by relaxing 
the tone of the weary mind, has been sought for by the wisest 
and greatest of men at their own fireside. Senators and heroes 
have shut out the acclamations of an applauding world to enjoy 
the prattling of their little ones, and to partake the endearments 
of family conversation. They knew that even their best friends, 
in the common intercourse of life, were in some degree actuated 
by interested motives in displaying their affection ; that many of 
their followers applauded them in hopes of reward; and that 
the giddy multitude, however zealous, were not always judicious 
in their approbation. But the attentions paid them at their fire- 
side, the smiles which exhilarated their own table, were the 
genuine result of undissembled love. 

The nursery has often alleviated the fatigues of the bar and the 
senate-house. Nothing contributes more to raise the gently- 
pleasing emotions than the view of infant innocence, enjoying the 
raptures of a game at play. All the sentiments of uncontrolled 
nature display themselves to the view, and furnish matter for 
agreeable reflection to the mind of the philosophical observer. 
To partake with children in their little pleasures is by no means 
unmanly. It is one of the purest sources of mirth. It has an 

13* 



142 KNOX. [GEORGE IV. 

influence in amending the heart, which necessarily takes a tinc- 
ture from the company that surrounds us. Innocence as well as 
guilt is communicated and increased by the contagion of example. 
And the great author of evangelical philosophy has taught us to 
emulate the simplicity of the infantine age. He seems indeed 
himself to have been delighted with young children, and found in 
them, what he in vain sought among those who judged themselves 
their superiors, unpolluted purity of heart. 

Among the great variety of pictures which the vivid imagina- 
tion of Homer has displayed throughout the Iliad, there is not 
01^ more pleasing than the family piece which represents the 
parting interview between Hector and Andromache. It deeply 
interests the heart while it delights the imagination. The hero 
ceases to be terrible, that he may become amiable. We admire 
him while he stands completely armed in the field of battle ; but 
we love him more while he is taking off his helmet that he may 
not frighten his little boy with its nodding plumes. We are re- 
freshed with the tender scene of domestic love, while all around 
breathes rage and discord. We are pleased to see the arm which is 
shortly to deal death and destruction among a host of foes, em- 
ployed in caressing an infant son with the embraces of paternal 
love. A professed critic would attribute the pleasing effect en- 
tirely to contrast ; but the heart has declared, previously to the 
inquiries of criticism, that it is chiefly derived from the satisfac- 
tion which we naturally take in beholding great characters en- 
gaged in tender and amiable employments. 

Essays, No. xl. 



ON SIMPLICITY OP STYLE. 

Food that gives the liveliest pleasure on the first taste fre- 
quently disgusts on repetition ; and those things which please 
the palate without satiety, are such as agitate but moderately, 
and perhaps originally caused a disagreeable sensation. Mental 
food is also found by experience to nourish most and delight the 
longest when it is not lusciously sweet. Profuse ornament and 
unnecessary graces, though they may transport the reader on a 
first perusal, commonly occasion a kind of intellectual surfeit, 
which prevents a second. 

Immoderate embellishment is the mark of a puerile taste, of a 
weak judgment, and a little genius. It conveys the idea of too 
great a labor to please ; an idea which excludes the appearance of 
ease, without which it is difficult to efifect the purpose of pleasing. 



1820-1830.] KNOX. 143 

If the reader enters into the author's spirit, he finds his emotions 
too rapidly excited to be consistent with pleasurable feelings. 
Works acknowledged to be written with true taste are found, for 
the most part, to raise gentle emotions ; and, when it is necessary 
to call up the more violent, the eflPect is improved from the rarity 
of the attempt. There is a certain equable flow of spirits which 
keeps the mind in a tone for the admission of durable pleasure; 
but which, when hurried or exalted beyond its natural state, ter- 
minates in disgust. 

The Meditations of Hervey, and many books of devotion, are 
written in that rhapsodic style which wearies by its constant efforts 
to elevate the mind to ecstasy. They have, it is true, a useful 
effect on the rude and uncultivated, who are seldom penetrated 
but by forcible impressions ; but the pleasure they give is not 
sufficiently elegant and refined to attach the more polished reader. 

Poetical prose, as all such writings may be called, seems indeed 
by no means correspondent to classical ideas of beauty. There is 
no model of it among writers in the golden ages, and it has sel- 
dom been attempted by the first rank of moderns. Fenelon, 
indeed, succeeded in it, but he richly intermixed the beautiful 
flowers originally culled by Homer and Virgil. Genius like his, 
assisted by classical learning, may give a grace to compositions 
formed on plans not quite conformable to the most approved 
taste. 

The Bible, the Iliad, and Shakspeare's works,^ are allowed to 
be the sublimest books that the world can exhibit. They are 
also truly simple ; and the reader is the more affected by their in- 
disputable sublimity, because his attention is not wearied by in- 
effectual attempts at it. He who is acquainted with Longinus 
will remember that the instances adduced by that great pattern 
of the excellence he describes, are not remarkable for a glaring 
or a pompous style, but derive their claim to sublimity from a 
noble energy of thought, modestly set off by a proper expression. 

No author has been more universally approved than Xenophon. 
Yet his writings display no appearance of splendor or majesty ; 
nothing elevated or adorned with figures ; no affectation of super- 
fluous ornament. His merit is an unaffected sweetness which no 
affectation can obtain. The graces seem to have conspired to 
form the becoming texture of his composition. And yet, perhaps, 
a common reader would neglect him, because the easy and natural 
air of his narrative rouses no violent emotion. More refined un- 
derstandings peruse him with delight; and Cicero has recorded 

• He should have added Milton, and placed him next to the Bible, 



144 WOLFE. [GEORGE IV. 

that Scipio, when once he had opened the books of Xenophon, 
would with difl&culty be prevailed with to close them. His style, 
says the same great orator and critic, is sweeter than honey, and 
the muses themselves seem to have spoken from his mouth. 

Julius Caesar is thought to have resembled him in his style, as 
he did in the circumstance of profession. He has nothing florid 
or grand, but, like a gentle river, flows on with a surface unruffled. 
A wonderful instance of moderation, to have recounted his own 
achievements with accuracy, yet without being, for a moment, 
betrayed into an unbecoming pomp either of diction or representa- 
tion. Yet with all the gracefulness of modesty and simplicity, 
he has an air of grandeur that commands respect. In comparison 
with this, ostentatious ornament would have been contemptible 
deformity. 

Cicero, who understood and valued the simplicity of Xenophon, 
was, however, himself sometimes guilty of its violation. He 
adopted the Asiatic manner in some of his orations, and they are 
sometimes more verbose, diffuse, and affected, than an Attic taste 
can patiently endure. But it is a kind of sacrilege, as well as 
presumption, to detract from the deserved glory of a man who, in 
his life and writings, advanced human nature to high perfection. 

To write in a plain style appears easy in theory ; but how few 
in comparison have avoided the fault of unnecessary and false 
ornament ! The greater part seem to have mistaken unwieldy 
corpulence for robust vigor, and to have despised the temperate 
habit of sound health as meagreness. The taste for finery is 
more general than for symmetrical beauty and chaste elegance ', 
and many, like Nero, would not be content till they should have 
spoiled, by gilding it, the statue of a Lysippus. 

Essays, No. xv. 



CHARLES WOLFE, 1791—1823. 

Chakles Wolfe, the youngest son of Theobald Wolfe, Esq., was born 
in Dublin on the 14ih of December, 1791. As a youth, he showed great 
precocity of talent, united to a most amiable disposition, and after the usual 
preparatory studies, in which he distinguished himself, he entered the Uni- 
versity of Dublin in 1809. He immediately attained a high rank for his 
classical attainments, and for his true poetic talent ; and the first year 
of his college course he obtained a prize for a poem upon " Jugurtha in 



1820-1830.] WOLFE. 145 

Prison." Before he left the university, he wrote a number of pieces of 
poetry that were truly beautiful, but especially that one on which his fame 
chiefly rests, the " Lines on the Burial of Sir John Moore." 

In 1814, he took his bachelor's degree, and entered at once upon the 
study of divinity. In 1817, he was ordained as curate of the church of 
Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. His most consci- 
entious and incessant attention to his duties in a wild and scattered parish 
soon made inroads upon his health, and he was advised to go to the south 
of France as the most likely means to avert the threatened malady— con- 
sumption. He remained but httle more than a month at Bordeaux, and 
returned home, appearing to have been benefited by the voyage. But the 
fond hopes of his friends were soon to be blasted — the fatal disease had 
taken too strong a hold upon its victim — and, after a protracted illness, 
accompanied with much suffering, which he bore with the greatest 
Christian fortitude and patience, he expired on the 21st of February, 1823, 
in the thirty-second year of his age.i 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.^ 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

^ The following eloquent tribute to his memory was written by the Rev. 
Dr. Miller, of Trinity College, Dublin, author of the "Lectures on Modern 
History:*' " He combined eloquence of the first order with the zeal of an 
apostle. During the short time in which he held a curacy in the diocese of 
Armagh, he so wholly devoted himself to the discharge of his duties in a very 
populous parish, that he exhausted his strength by exertions disproportioned 
to his constitution, and was cut off by disease in what should have been the 
bloom of youth. This zeal, which was too powerful for his bodily frame, was 
yet controlled by a vigorous and manly intellect, which all the ardor of re 
ligion and poetry could never urge to enthusiasm. His opinions were as sober 
as if they were merely speculative ; his fancy was as vivid as if he never 
reasoned ; his conduct as zealous as if he thought only of his practical duties ; 
everything in him held its proper place, except a due consideration of himself, 
and to his neglect of this he became an early victim." 

2 The passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1808), on which Wolfe 
founded his ode, is as follows: " Sir John Moore had often said that, if he 
was killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was 
removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on 
the ramparts there by a body of the ninth regiment, the aides-de-camp attend- 
ing by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrap- 
ped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The inter- 
ment was hastened ; for, about eight in the morning, some firing was heard, 
and the officers feared that, if a serious attack were made, they should be 
ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his 
family bore him to the grave ; the funeral service was read by the chaplain ; 
and the corpse was covered with earth." 



146 WOLFE. [GEORGE IV. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning — 
By the struggUng moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazod on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed. 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 
And we heard the distant and random gun 

That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory : 
We carv'd not a line, and we rais'd not a stone — 

But we left him alone with his glory. 



SONG. 

Oh, say not that my heart is cold 

To aught that once could warm it — 
That Nature's form, so dear of old, 

No more has power to charm it — 
Or that the ungenerous world can chill 

One glow of fond emotion 
For those who made it dearer still. 

And shared my wild devotion ! 

Still oft those solemn scenes I view 

In rapt and dreamy sadness ; 
Oft look on those who loved them too 

With Fancy's idle gladness : 
Again I long'd to view the light 

In Nature's features glowing; 
Again to tread the mountain's height, 

And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 



1820-1830.] WOLFE. 147 

Stern duty rose, and frowning flung 

His leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look and sullen tongue 

He mutter'd, as he bound me : 
"The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, 

Unfit for toil the creature ; 
These for the free alone are given — 

But what have slaves with Nature ?" 



SONG. — TO MARY. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be: 
It never through my mind had past 

The time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more! 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again; 
And still the thought I will not brook, 

That I must look in vain ! 
But when I speak, thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 
And now I feel, as well I may, 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art — 

All cold and all serene — 
I still might press thy silent heart. 

And where thy smiles have been! 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 
But there I lay thee in thy grave — 

And I am now alone ! 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 

In thinking too of thee : 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before. 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore ! 



THE FRAILTY OF BEAUTY. 

I must tune up my harp's broken string. 
For the fair has commanded the strain ; 



148 WOLFE. [GEORGE IV. 

But yet such a theme will I sing, 

That I think she'll not ask me again. 

For I'll tell her — Youth's blossom is blown, 
And that Beauty, the flower, must fade ; 

(And sure, if a lady can frown. 

She'll frown at the words I have said.) 

The smiles of the rosebud how fleet ! 

They come — and as quickly they fly: 
The violet how modest and sweet! 

Yet the Spring sees it open and die. 

How snow-white the lily appears ! 

Yet the life of a lily 's a day ; 
And the snow that it equals, in tears 

To-morrow must vanish away. 

Ah, Beauty ! of all things on earth 

How many thy charms most desire ! 
Yet Beauty with Youth has its birth — 

And Beauty with Youth must expire. 

Ah, fair ones! so sad is the tale, 

That my song in my sorrow I steep ; 
And where I intended to rail, 

I must lay down my harp, and must weep. 

But Virtue indignantly seized 

The harp, as it fell from my hand ; 
Serene was her look, though displeas'd, 

And she utter'd her awful command : 

" Thy tears and thy pity employ 

For the thoughtless, the giddy, the vain — 
But those who my blessings enjoy 
Thy tears and thy pity disdain. 

" For Beauty alone ne'er bestow'd 

Such a charm as Religion has lent; 
And the cheek of a belle never glow'd 
With a smile like the smile of content. 

" Time's hand, and the pestilence-rage, 
No hue, no complexion can brave; 
For Beauty must yield to old age, 
But I will not yield to the grave." 



REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH. 

If there were no other reason for remembering our Creator in 
the days of our youth, than that we may never have an old age 
vouchsafed to us in which we may recall him to our thoughts ; 
that between us and that old age there may be a great gulf fixed 



1820-1830.] WOLFE. 149 

that we shall never pass ; if this were the only reason, should it 
not be enough ? Nay, the sin of thus trifling with him and our 
own immortal souls, by deferring their consideration to a future 
opportunity, may be the very means of provoking him to with- 
hold that opportunity for ever. 

But there is another reason for remembering our Creator in the 
days of our youth. The days of our youth are the days of our 
blessings. It would be hard to find, throughout the whole range 
of creation, a more glorious and interesting object than youth just 
entering into active life, just rejoicing as a giant to run his course. 
Set him alongside of the noblest animal of any other species; 
compare him with the old and decaying members of his own — 
and what a difference ! In those days we enter into life with a 
shower of Grod's blessings upon our heads; we come adorned with 
all the choicest gifts of the Almighty; with strength of body, with 
activity of limb, with health and vigor of constitution, with every- 
thing to fit us both for labor and for enjoyment ; if not endowed with 
a sufficiency, endowed with what is better, the power of obtaining 
it for ourselves by an honest and manly industry; with senses 
keen and observing; with spirits high, lively, and untameable, 
that shake off care and sorrow whenever they attempt to fasten 
upon our mind, and that enable us to mahe pleasure for ourselves, 
where we do not find it, and to draw enjoyment and gratification 
from things in which they see nothing but pain, vexation, and dis- 
appointment. 

But, above all, in the days of our youth, the mind and the 
memory, with which we have been endowed by the Almighty, are 
then all fresh, alive, and vigorous. Alas ! we seldom think what 
an astonishing gift is that understanding which we enjoy — the 
bright light that God has kindled within us — until our old age 
comes, when we find that that understanding is wearing away, and 
that light becoming dim. Then shall we feel bitterly, most bit- 
terly, what it is to have enjoyed, in the days of our youth, that 
privilege which seems to be withheld from all the animals by 
whom we are surrounded — even the privilege of knowing that 
there is a God ; the privilege even of barely thinking upon such 
a Being ; but more than that, the privilege of studying and un- 
derstanding the astonishing variety of his works, of observing the 
ways of his providence, of admiring his power, his wisdom, and 
his goodness; the power of acquiring knowledge of a thousand 
different kinds, and the power of laying it up in our memory, and 
using it when we please ; and this in the days of our youth, when 
the mind is all on fire, brisk, clear, and powerful, and when we 
actually seem to take knowledge by force, and when the memory 
14 



150 WOLFE. [GEORGE IV. 

is large and spacious, so as to admit and contain the good things 
that we learn; and where the place that should be filled by know- 
ledge has not yet been preoccupied by crimes, by sorrows, and 
anxieties. 



THE WORLDLING S AND THE CHRISTIAN S YOKE. 

There is the yoke of pride; and who has not felt its weight? 
There is scarcely a day of our lives in which our pride is not hurt. 
Sometimes we meet with direct affront ; at other times, we do not 
think we are treated with the respect we deserve ; at other times, we 
find that people do not entertain the opinion of us which we would 
wish them to hold; but, above all, how often do we find ourselves 
lowered in our own opinion ! and then the yoke of pride becomes 
more uneasy by our endeavors to regain our own good opinion, 
and to hide the real state of the case from our conscience. 

But the Christian's yoke is humility; its very nature depends 
upon humility : for no one has submitted to the service of Christ, 
or become his disciple, until fully sensible of his own unworthiness, 
and, consequently, of his want of the merits of a Redeemer. Thus 
has the Christian become acquainted with the plague of his own 
heart — his sin has been often before him ; and, however deeply 
he may lament its guilt, he has lost that blind and haughty self- 
sufiiciency that makes him uneasy at the neglect of others, or 
afraid to stand the scrutiny of self-examination. 

There is the yoke of debauchery and sensuality — that galling 
yoke which even those who wear it cannot bear to think upon ; 
and, therefore, they still continue to plunge into drunkenness and 
profligacy, lest they should have time to think on their lost and 
disgraceful situation. Those miserable men, when the carousal 
and the debauch are over, then begin to feel the weight and the 
wretchedness of the yoke that they are bearing. They then feel 
what it is to load their bodies with pain and disease, and their 
everlasting souls with every foul and sinful thought; to have 
brutalized their nature, or to have sunk it by intoxication, into 
a state of which brutes seem incapable; and they then feel the 
weight of their yoke, when this indulgence has put them into 
such a state of madness and insensibility that they may commit a 
crime which will be the yoke and the burden of their consciences 
for the rest of their lives. Is it necessary to compare the Christ- 
ian yoke with this? We will not disgrace it by naming it in the 
same breath. 

Then there is the yoke of covetousness : and who does not know 



1820-1830.] WOLFE. 151 

all the cares, all the watchings, all the restless days and sleepless 
nights — and, after all, the endless disappointments — that the most 
prosperous and successful will have to encounter through life ? 
And then the fearful anticipation of that day, when a man shall 
find that all these things are as if they had never been ! * * * 
But the grand difference between the Christian and the man of 
the world is that the burden of the one is gathering as he pro- 
ceeds, while that of the other is becoming lighter and more easy : 
the man of carnal mind and worldly affections clings more and 
more to his beloved earth, and new cares thicken around his death- 
bed ; his burdefl is collecting as he advances, and when he comes 
to the edge of the grave it bears him down to the bottom like a 
millstone. But the Blessed Spirit, by gradually elevating the 
Christian's tempers and desires, makes obedience become more 
easy and delightful, until he mounts into the presence of God, 
where he finds it " a service of perfect freedom.'^ 



BLINDNESS OF MILTON. 

There lived a divine old man, whose everlasting remains we 
have all admired, whose memory is the pride of England and of 
nature. His youth was distinguished by a happier lot than per- 
haps genius has often enjoyed at the commencement of its career; 
he was enabled, by the liberality of Providence, to dedicate his 
soul to the cultivation of those classical accomplishments in which 
almost his infancy delighted ; he had attracted admiration at the 
period when it is most exquisitely felt ; he stood forth the literary 
and political champion of republican England ; and Europe ac- 
knowledged him the conqueror. But the storm arose; his fortune 
sank with the republic which he had defended ; the name which 
future ages have consecrated was forgotten ; and neglect was im- 
bittered by remembered celebrity. Age was advancing. Health 
was retreating. Nature hid her face from him forever ; for never 
more to him returned 

" Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine." 

What was the refuge of the deserted veteran from penury — 
from neglect — from infamy — from darkness ? Not in a querulous 
and peevish despondency ; not in an unmanly recantation of prin- 
ciples, erroneous, but unchanged ; not in the tremendous renun- 
ciation of what Heaven has given, and Heaven alone should take 



152 BLOOMFIELD. [GEORGE IV. 

away ; but he turned from a distracted country and a voluptuous 
court ; he turned from triumphant enemies and inefficient friends ; 
he turned from a world, that to him was a universal blank, to the 
muse that sits among the cherubim, and she caught him into 
heaven ! The clouds that obscured his vision upon earth in- 
stantaneously vanished before the blaze of celestial effulgence, 
and his eyes opened at once upon all the glories and terrors of the 
Almighty, the seats of eternal beatitude and bottomless perdition. 
What though to look upon the face of this earth was still denied ? 
what was it to him that one of the outcast atoms of creation was 
concealed from his view, when the Deity permitted the muse to 
unlock his mysteries, and disclose to the poet the recesses of the 
universe — when she bade his soul expand into its immensity, and 
enjoy as well its horrors as its magnificence ? what was it to him 
that he had ^^ fallen upon evil days and evil tongues?" for the 
muse could transplant his spirit into the bowers of Eden, where 
the frown of fortune was disregarded, and the weight of incum- 
bent infirmity forgotten, in the smile that beamed on primeval 
innocence, and the tear that was consecrated to man's first dis- 
obedience ! 



ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 1766—1823. 

Robert Bloomfield, the author of "The Farmer's Boy," was the son 
of a tailor at Harrington, in Suffolk, and was born on the 3d of December, 
1766. At the early age of eleven, he was literally the Farmer's Boy of 
his own poem, being placed with a Mr. Austin, a farmer, at Sapiston, in 
Suffolk. In this situation, which he has so accurately described, and where 
he first imbibed his enthusiastic attachment to the charms of nature, he con- 
tinued for two years and a half, when he was apprenticed to his brother 
George, a shoemaker, in London. His principal occupation was to wait 
upon the journeymen, and in his intervals of leisure he read the newspaper, 
and was soon able to comprehend and admire the speeche^of Burke, Fox, 
and other statesmen of the day. A perusal of some poetry in the " London 
Magazine" led to his earliest attempts at verse, which he sent to a news- 
paper, under the title of "The Milkmaid," and " The Sailor's Return." 

In 1784, to avoid the consequences of some unpleasant disputes among 
his brethren of the trade, he retired for two months to the country, and was 
received by his former master, Mr. Austin, with the kindest hospitality. 
It is to this event we owe the composition of his admirable poem ; " and 
here," observes his brother, "with his mind glowing with the fine descrip- 



1820-1830.] BLOOMFIELD. 153 

tions of rural scenery which he found in ' Thomson's Seasons,' he again re- 
traced the very, fields where he began to think. Here, free from the smoke, 
the noise, the contention of the city, he imbibed that love of rural simplicity, 
and rural innocence, which fitted him, in a great degree, to be the writer of 
such a thing as ' The Farmer's Boy.' " 

After this visit to his native fields, he recommenced his business as a 
ladies' shoemaker in London, and shortly after married a young woman 
by the name of Church. He then hired a room in Bell Alley, Coleman 
Street, and worked in the garret of the house. It was here, in the midst 
of six or seven other workmen, he composed the main part of his celebrated 
poem. Tw^o or three publishers to whom he first offered it, learning his 
occupation and seeing him so poorly clad, refused it with almost contempt. 
But at length it reached the hands of Capel Lofft, Esq.,' who sent it with 
the strongest recommendations to Mr. Hill, the proprietor of the " Monthly 
Mirror," who negotiated the sale of the poem with the publishers, Verner 
and Hood. These gentlemen acted with great liberality towards Bloom- 
field, to their honor be it said, by voluntarily giving him two hundred pounds 
in addition to the fifty pounds originally stipulated for his poem, and by 
securing to him a portion of the copyright. Immediately on its appear- 
ance, it was received with the greatest applause from all quarters, the most 
eminent critics^ coming out warmly in its praise ; and within three years 
after its publication twenty-six thousand copies of it were sold. 

His good fortune, which, he said, appeared to him as a dream, enabled 
him to remove to a more comfortable habitation, and though he continued 
working at his trade, he did not neglect the cultivation of his poetical talents. 
His fame was increased by the subsequent publication of "Rural Tales, 
Ballads and Songs," " Good Tidings, or News from the Farm," " Wild 
Flowers," and "Banks of the Wye." But an indiscriminate liberality 
towards his numerous poor relations, together with a growing family, brought 
him into pecuniary difficulties, which, added to long-continued ill health, so 
preyed upon his mind that he was reduced at last to a state little short of 
insanity. He died at Sheffbrd, August 19, 1823, at the age of fifty-seven.3 

The best poems of Bloomfield are "The Farmer's Boy," "Wild 
Flowers," with several of the " Ballads and Tales." It is enough to say 
in praise of them that they have received the warmest commendations of 

* Editor of the "Aphorisms from Shakspeare," and other works. 

"^ The approbation first bestowed has steadily continued, notwithstanding 
the contemptuous derision of Byron in his " English Bards." But Bloomfield 
is in good company, and malignant sneers at Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, 
and Bloomfield are more sure to injure the lampooner than the lampooned. 

' I must here insert the beautiful tribute to his memory by Bernard Barton : 

It is not quaint and local terms 

Besprinkled o'er thy rustic lay, 
Though well such dialect confirms 

Its power unlettered minds to sway ; 
But 'tis not these that most display 

Thy sweetest charms, thy gentlest thrall — 
Words, phrases, fashions pass away, 

But Truth and Nature live through all. 

14* 



154 BLOOMFIELD. [GEORGE IV. 

such critics as James Montgomery, Dr. Nathan Drake, Souihey, and Sir 
Egerton Brydges. The author's amiable disposition and benevolence per- 
vade the whole of his compositions. There is an artless simplicity, a vir- 
tuous rectitude of sentiment, an exquisite sensibility to the beautiful, which 
cannot fail to gratify every one who respects moral excellence, and loves the 
delightful scenes of country life. 

The "Farmer's Boy" is divided into four books, named from the four 
seasons. The following is an account of Giles (as the " Farmer's Boy" is 
called) going out to his early morning work, and a description of 



WOOD-SCENERY. 



-When at daybreak summon'd from his bed, 



Light as the lark that caroU'd o'er his head, 

His sandy way, deep-worn by hasty showers, 

0"erarch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bowers, 

Waving aloft their tow'ring branches proud, 

In borrow 'd tinges from the eastern cloud, 

(Whence inspiration, pure as ever flow'd. 

And genuine transport, in his bosom glow'd,) 

His own shrill matin join'd the various notes 

Of nature's music from a thousand throats : 

The blackbird strove with emulation sweet, 

And Echo answer 'd from her close retreat; 

The sporting white-throat, on some twig's end borne, 

Pour'd hymns to Freedom and the rising morn ; 

Stopt in her song, perchance, the starting thrush. 

Shook a white shower from the black-thorn bush, 

Where dew-drops thick as early blossoms hung, 

And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung. 

Spring, 1. 129. 



MILKING. 

Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles j 
The mistress too, and followed close by Giles. 
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, 
With pails bright scour'd, and delicately sweet; 
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray. 
Begins their work, begins the simple lay; 
The full-charg'd udder yields its willing streams. 
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dreams ; 
And crouching Giles beneath a neighboring tree 
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee; 
Whose hat with tatter'd brim, of nap so bare, 
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, 
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, 
An unambitious, peaceable cockade. 

Spring, 1. 191. 



1820-1830.] BLOOMFIELD. 155 



LAMBS AT PLAY. 

Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen 
Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enliv'ning green, 
Say, did you give the thrilling transport way ? 
Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play 
Leap'd O'er your path with animated pride. 
Or graz'd in merry clusters by your side? 
Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, 
At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; 
If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, 
Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth; 
In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, 
'Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy ; 
A few begin a short but vigorous race. 
And indolence abash'd soon flies the place ; 
Thus challeng'd forth, see thither, one by one, 
• From every side assembling playmates run ; 
A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
A starting crowd, impatient of delay. 
Like the fond dove, from fearful prison freed. 
Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed;" 
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong. 
The green turf trembling as they bound along; 
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, 
Where every molehill is a bed of thyme; 
There panting stop ; yet scarcely can refrain ; 
A bird, a leaf, will set them off" again ; 
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
Scatt'ring the wildbrier roses into snow, 
Their little limbs increasing efforts try. 
Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. 
Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom; 
Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom! 
Though unoffending innocence may plead. 
Though frantic ewes may mourn the savage deed. 
Their -sliepherd comes, a messenger of blood, 
And drives them bleating from their sports and food. 

Spring, 1. 309. 

Giles, having fatigued himself by his endeavors to frighten a host of 
sparrows from the wheat-ears, retires to repose beneath the friendly shelter 
of some projecting boughs, and, while with head upon the ground he is 
gazing upon the heavens, he suddenly hears 



THE SKYLARK. 

Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings, 
And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings ; 



156 ELOOMFIELD. [GEORGE IV. 

Still louder breathes, and in the face of day- 
Mounts up, and calls ou Giles to mark her way. 
Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, 
And forms a friendly telescope, that lends 
Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, 
And place the wand'ring bird before his sight; 
Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along. 
Lost for a while , yet pours her vancd song. 
He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by, 
Again she stretches up the clear blue sky ; 
Her form, her motion, undistinguished quite, 
Save when she wheels direct from shade to light : 
The flutt'ring songstress a mere speck became, 
Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream : 
He sees her yet, but, yielding to repose, 
Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. 
Delicious sleep ! From sleep who could forbear, 
With no more guilt than Giles, and no more care ? 
Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing, 
Nor conscience once disturbs him with a sting ; 
He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain, 
And takes his pole and brushes round again/ 

Summer, 1. 63. 

In painting the characteristics and caprices of insanity, Cowper has touched 
every heart in his well-known picture of "Crazy Kate."^ But may not 
Bloomfield claim equal praise for his beautiful and affecting story of 

» <' The most beautiful part in the description of this bird, and which is at 
once curiously faithful and expressively harmonious, I have copied in Italics. 
Milton and Thomson have both introduced the flight of the skylark, the first 
with his accustomed spirit and sublimity ; but probably no poet has surpassed, 
either in fancy or expression, the following prose narrative of Dr. Goldsmith, 
in his 'History of the Earth and Animated Nature': 'Nothing,' observes 
he, ' can be more pleasing than to see the lark warbling upon the wing, raising 
its note as it soars, until it seems lost in the immense heights above us ; the 
note continuing, the bird itself unseen ; to see it then descending with a swell 
as it comes from the clouds, yet sinking by degrees as it approaches its nest, 
the spot where all its affections are centred — the spot that has prompted all 
this joy.' This description of the descent of the bird, and of the pleasures of 
its little nest, is conceived in a strain of the most exquisite delicacy and 
feeling." 

Dr. Drake. 

^ ■ A tatter'd apron hides. 

Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gown 

More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal 

A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs. 

She begs an idle pin of all she mieets, 

And hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful food, 

Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, 

Though pinch'd with cold, asks never. — Kate is cjaz'd. 



1820-1830.] BLOOMFIELD. 157 



THE DISTRACTED FEMALE.^ 

— Naught her rayless melancholy cheers, 
Or soothes her breast, or stops her streaming tears. 
Her matted locks unornamented flow, 
Clasping her knees, and waving to and fro ; 
Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide; 
A piteous mourner by the pathway side. 
Some tufted molehill through the livelong day 
She'calls her throne; there weeps her life away: 
And oft the gaily-passing stranger stays 
His well-tim'd step, and takes a silent gaze, 
Till sympathetic drops unbidden start, 
And pangs quick springing muster round his heart ; 
And soft he treads with other gazers round. 
And fain would catch her sorrow's plaintive sound: 
One word alone is all that strikes the ear. 
One short, pathetic, simple word — "O dear J"' 
A thousand times repeated to the wind, 
That wafts the sigh, Tut leaves the pang behind! 
Forever of the proffer'd parley shy. 
She hears th' unwelcome foot advancing nigh ; 
Nor quite unconscious of her wretched plight, 
Gives one sad look, and hurries out of sight. — 
Fair promis''d sunbeams of terrestrial bliss. 
Health's gallant hopes — and are ye sunk to this ? 
For in life's road, though thorns abundant grow, 
There still are joys poor Poll can never know ; 
Joys which the gay companions of her prime 
Sip, as they drift along the stream of time ; 
At eve to hear beside their tranquil home 
The lifted latch, that speaks the lover come: 
That love matur'd, next playful on the knee 
To press the velvet lip of infancy ; 
To stay the tottering step, the features trace; 
Inestimable sweets of social peace! 
O Thou ! xvho bidst the vernal Juices rise. 
Thou, on whose blasts autumnal foliage flies ! 
Let Peace ne'er leave me, nor my heart grow cold, 
Whilst life and sanity are mine to hold.^ 

' "It presents as finished a specimen of versification as can be extracted 
from the pages of our most polished poets ; and its pathos is such as to require 
no comment of mine." 

DrakeH Literary Hours, vol. ii. p. 467. 

2 "From the review we have now taken of the 'Farmer's Boy,' it will be 
evident, I think, that, owing to its harmony and sweetness of versification, its 
benevolence of sentiment, and originality of imagery, it is entitled to rank 
very high in the clasps of descriptive and pastoral poetry, and that, most pro- 
bably, it will descend to posterity with a character and with encomia similar 
to what has been the endeavor of these essays to attach to it." 

Dr. Brake. 



158 BLOOMFIELD. [GEORGE IV. 



THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. 

Come, friend, Til turn thee up again : 

Companion of the lonely hour ! 
Spring thirty times hath fed with rain 

And clotlied with leaves my humble bower, 
Since thou hast stood 
In frame of wood, 
On chest or window by my side : 

At every birth still thou wert near, 

Still spoke thine admonitions clear — 
And, when my husband died. 

I've often watch'd thy streaming sand. 
And seen the growing mountain rise, 

And often found life's hopes to stand 
On props as weak in wisdom's eyes: 
Its conic crown 
Still sliding down, ^ 

Again heap'd up, then down agam ; 
The sand above more hollow grew, 
Like days and years still filtering through, 

And mingling joy and pain. 

While thus I spin and sometimes sing 
(For now and then my heart will glow). 

Thou measurest Time's expanding wing ; 
By thee the noontide hour I know : 
Though silent thou, 
Still shall thou flow. 

And jog along thy destined way : 
But when I glean the sultry fields, 
When earth her yellow harvest yields, 

Thou gett'st a holiday. 

Steady as truth, on either end 
Thy daily task performing well, 

Thou'rt meditation's constant friend. 
And strik'st the heart without a bell: 
Come, lovely May ! 
Thy lengthen'd day 

Shall gild once more my native plain ; 

Curl inward here, sweet woodbine flower : 
"Companion of the lonely hour, 

I'll turn thee up again." 



1820-1830.] ERSKiNE. 159 



THOMAS ERSKINE, 1750-1823. 

Thomas (Lord) Erskine, third son of the Earl of Buchan, was born in 
the year 1750, and was educated at the University of St. Andrews. After 
serving six years in the navy and army, he was induced, at the earnest re- 
quest of his mother, who saw his talents, and jestingly said he must be 
Lord Chancellor, to quit the military profession and prepare himself for the 
law. In 1778, he was called to the bar, where his success was immediate 
and remarkable. In a case of libel, in which he advocated the cause of the 
defendant, Capt, Baillie,' he displayed so much eloquence and talent that 
the legal world was astonished, and nearly thirty briefs were put into his 
bands before he left the court. In 1781, he appeared as counsel for Lord 
George Gordon in what was called a case of constructive treason, and by 
his wonderful skill, and eloquence, and legal- learning, procured the acquit- 
tal of his client, and thus, for the time, gave the deathblow to the tremen- 
dous doctrine of constructive treason. 

But there is nothing in the life of this eminent man which reflects so 
much honor on his memory as his exertions in defence of the privileges of 
juries. The rights of those pro tempore judges he strenuously maintained 
upon all occasions, particularly in the celebrated trial of the Dean of St. 
Asaph for libel, in 1784, when Justice Buller refused to receive the ver- 
dict o{ " guilty of publishing only,'" as returned by the jury. ^ In 1789, he 
again displayed his wonderful powers in the defence of Mr. Stockdale, a 
bookseller, who was tried by the government for publishing what was 
charged as a libellous pamphlet, in favor of the celebrated Warren Hast- 

» On this occasion, he showed that the courage which marked his profes- 
sional life was not acquired after the success which rendered it a safe and 
a cheap virtue ; but, being naturally inherent in the man, was displayed at a 
moment when attended with great risks. In the course of his eloquent argu- 
ment, he was inveighing very strongly against a certain "noble lord," when 

the judge, Lord Mansfield, interrupted him, and remarked that " the Lord 

was not before the court."' " I know he is not," was the bold reply, "but, 
for that very reason, I will hring him before the court. I will drag him to 
light who is the dark mover behind this scene of iniquity." 

^ The following is a part of the spirited dialogue that ensued when the jury 
returned their verdict. It shows the noble daring and courage of Erskine. 

Mr. Erskine. — Is the word only to stand part of your verdict ? 

A Juror. — Certainly. 

Mr. Justice Buller. — Then the verdict must be misunderstood ; let me un- 
derstand the jury. 

Mr. Ersl-ine.—(WHh great spirit.) The jury do understand their verdict. 

Mr. Justice Buller. — Sir, I will not be interrupted. 

Mr. Erskine. — I stand here as an advocate for a brother citizen, and I de- 
sire that the word 07ily may be recorded. 

Mr. Justice Buller. — Sit down, sir ; remember your duty, or I shall be 
obliged to proceed in another manner. 

Mr. Erskine. — Your lordship may proceed in what manner you think fit. 
I know my duty as well as your lordship knows yours. I shall not alter my 
conduct. 



160 ERSKINE. [GEORGE IV. 

ings. This is one of his very finest, if not the best of all his speeches ; 
and, " whether we regard the wonderful skill with which the argument is 
conducted, the soundness of the principles laid down, and their happy ap- 
plication to the case, the vividness of fancy with which these are illus- 
trated, and the touching language in which they are conveyed, it is justly 
to be regarded as a consummate specimen of the art of addressing a jury." 
This masterly defence procured a clear acquittal for Stockdale, although 
the fact of publication was admitted. 

But the most arduous effort of his professional life arose out of the part 
he took in the defence of Hardy, Home Tooke, and others, in 1794, charged 
with high treason. These trials lasted several weeks, and the ability dis- 
played by Mr. Erskine on this memorable occasion was acknowledged 
and admired by men of all parties. " Though the whole force of the bar 
was marshalled against the prisoners, and every effort used to beat down 
and paralyze their undaunted defender, his spirit rose superior to every 
difficulty, and his consummate talents shone forth in their native lustre. 
His indefatigable patience, his sleepless watchfulness, his unceasing 
activity of body and mind, his untameable spirit, his quickness and sub- 
tilty of intellect, together with a Herculean strength of constitution, 
counterbalanced the host to which he was opposed." In 1797, he delivered 
a most admirable speech — speaking more as a man than a lawyer — 'on the 
prosecution of a Mr. Williams, the printer and publisher of that foul, infi- 
del book, " The Age of Reason," by Thomas Paine. Some passages of 
this speech are equal to anything he ever delivered. 

In politics, Mr. Erskine was on the liberal side, acling with Fox and 
others of that party. He strenuously opposed the war with France, and 
published a pamphlet against it, entitled " A View of the Causes and Con- 
sequences of a War with France," which had an immense sale. On the 
death of Mr. Pitt, in 1806, when Lord Grenville formed a new administra- 
tions Mr. Erskine was created a peer, and elevated to the dignity of Lord 
High Chancellor of England His public career may be said to have termi- 
nated with this event, and the remainder of his life was undistinguished 
by any great exertion. Whilst accompanying one of his sons by sea to 
Edinburgh, he was seized with an inflammation of the chest, which com- 
pelled him to land at Scarborough. He reached Scotland by easy stages, 
but expired on the 17th of November, 1823, at the seat of his brother, a few 
miles from Edinburgh. 

The eloquence of Lord Erskine was characterized not merely by the 
elegance of its diction and the graces of its style, but was peculiarly remark- 
able for its grace and earnestness. As an advocate, ' ' he possessed the power 
of summoning upon the instant all the resources of his mind, and bringing 
them to bear upon the subject before the court with extraordinary effect. In 
this respect, his speeches bear a resemblance to those of Mr. Pitt, whilst 
they far surpass them in impassioned fervor, in brilliancy of imagination, in 
copiousness of imagery, and in that quality of the mind expressed by the em- 
phatic word — genius. His dexterity was likewise unrivalled at the bar, and 
these qualifications, united with a courage which nothing could daunt, and a 



1820-1830.] ERSKINE. 161 

firmness which was never overcome, rendered him almost irresistible on the 
defensive side of political persecution. In stemming the tide of state prose- 
cutions, this single patriot may be said to have saved his country from the 
horrors of a general proscription."^ 



TRAITOROUS ACTS AND INTENTIONS NECESSARY TO CONSTITUTE 

GUILT. 

Gentlemen, I have no manner of doubt that you will, I am 
sure you cannot but see, notwithstanding my great inability, in- 
creased by a perturbation of mind (arising, thank God ! from no 
dishonest cause), that there has been not only no evidence on the 
part of the crown to fix the guilt of the late commotions upon 
the prisoner, but that, on the contrary, we have been able to 
resist i\iQ jprohabilitij — I might almost say the possihility — of the 
charge, not only by living witnesses, whom we only ceased to call 
because the trial would never have ended, but by the evidence of 
all the blood that has paid the forfeit of that guilt already — an 
evidence that, I will take upon me to say, is the strongest and 
most unanswerable which the combination of natural events ever 
brought together since the beginning of the world for the deliver- 
ance of the oppressed : — since, in the late numerous trials for acts 
of violence and depredation, though conducted by the ablest ser- 

* Encyclopaedia Britannica. Read an excellent article on Lord Erskine in 
the 16th volume of the " Edinburgh Review ;" also, an admirable sketch of his 
character in that most instructive and eloquent book, " Stanton's Reforms and 
Reformers of Great Britain." From this I must make the following extract : — 

" Erskine's speech for Hardy (whose case was very critical, and the first 
one tried) is one of the most splendid specimens of popular juridical eloquence 
on record. Owing to the running contests on points of law and evidence, 
constantly kept up while the trial went on, he lost his voice the night before 
he was to address the jury. It returned to him in the morning, and he was 
able to crowd seven hours full of such oratory as is rarely heard in our day. 
He regarded Hardy's acquittal or conviction not only as the turning point ui 
the fate of his eleven associates, but as settling the question whether con- 
structive treason should for long years track blood through the land, or its 
murderous steps be now brought to a final stand. He made a superhuman 
effort for victory, and achieved it. Profound as was his legal learning, emi- 
nent as were his reasoning faculties, classical as was his taste, transcendent 
as were his oratorical powers, all conspiring to place him not only at the head 
of the English bar, but to rank him as the first advocate of modern times ; yet 
all were overshadowed by the inflexible courage and hearty zeal with which 
he met this crisis of British freedom. With the combined power of the king, 
his ministers, and his judges, arrayed against his clients and against him as 
their representative, seeking their blood and his degradation, he cowered not, 
but maintained the home-born rights of his proscribed fellow-subjects with 
arguments so matchless, with eloquence so glowing, with courage so heroic, 
with constancy so generous, that his name will ever find a place in the hearts 
of all who prefer the rights of man to the prerogatives of power." 

15 



162 ERSKINE. [GEORGE IV. 

vants of the crown, with a laudable eye to the investigation of 
the subject which now engages us, no one fact appeared which 
showed any plan, any object, any leader ', — since, out of forty- 
four thousand persons who signed the petition of the Protestants, 
Qiot one was to be found among those who were convicted, tried, 
or even apprehended on suspicion; — and since, out of all the 
felons who were let loose from prisons, and who assisted in the 
destruction of our property, not a single wretch was to be found 
who could even attempt to save his own life by the plausible pro- 
mise of giving evidence to-day. 

What can overturn such a proof as this ? Surely a good man 
might, without superstition, believe that such an union of events 
was something more than natural, and that the Divine Providence 
was watchful for the protection of innocence and truth. 

I may now, therefore, relieve you from the pain of hearing me 
any longer, and be myself relieved from speaking on a subject 
which agitates and distresses me. Since Lord George Gordon 
stands clear of every hostile act or purpose against the legislature 
of his country, or the properties of his fellow-subjects — since the 
whole tenor of his conduct repels the belief of the traitorous in- 
tention charged by the indictment — my task is finished. I shall 
make no address to your passions — I will not remind you of the 
long and rigorous imprisonment he has sufiered — I will not speak 
to you of his great youth, of his illustrious birth, and of his uni- 
formly animated and generous zeal in Parliament for the constitu- 
tion of his country. Such topics might be useful in the balance 
of a doubtful case ; yet, even then, I should have trusted to the 
honest hearts of Englishmen to have felt them without excitation. 
At present, the jjlain and rigid rules of justice and truth are suf- 
ficient to entitle me to your verdict. 

Speech on the Trial of Lord George Gordon 



PRINCIPLES OF THE LAW OF LIBEL. 

Gentlemen, the question you have therefore to try upon all 
this matter is extremely simple. It is neither more nor less than 
this : At a time when the charges against Mr. Hastings were, by 
the implied consent of the Commons, in every hand and on every 
table — when, by their managers, the lightning of eloquence was 
incessantly consuming him, and flashing in the eyes of the public 
— when every man was with perfect impunity saying, and writ- 
ing, and publishing just what he pleased of the supposed plun- 
derer and devastator of nations — would it have been criminal in 



1820-1830.] ERRKINE. 163 

Mr. Hastings himself to have reminded the public that he was a 
native of this free land, entitled to the common protection of her 
justice, and that he had a defence in his turn to offer to them, 
the outlines of which he implored them in the mean time to re- 
ceive, as an antidote to the unlimited and unpunished poison in 
circulation against him ? This is, without color or exaggeration, 
the true question you are to decide. Because I assert, without 
the hazard of contradiction, that if Mr. Hastings himself could 
have stood justified or excused in your eyes for publishing this 
volume in his own defence, the author, if he wrote it bona fide to 
defend him, must stand equally excused and justified ; and if the 
author be justified, the publisher cannot be criminal, unless you 
had evidence that it was published by him with a different spirit 
and intention from those in which it was written. The question, 
therefore, is correctly what I just now stated it to be — Could Mr. 
Hastings have been condemned to infamy for writing this book ? 
Gentlemen, I tremble with indignation to be driven to put such 
a question in England. Shall it be endured, that a subject of 
this country may be impeached by the Commons for the trans- 
actions of twenty years — that the accusation shall spread as wide 
as the region of letters — that the accused shall stand, day after 
day and year after year, as a spectacle before the public, which, 
shall be kept in a perpetual state of inflammation against him ; 
yet that he shall not, without the severest penalties, be permitted 
to submit anything to the judgment of mankind in his defence ? 
If this be law (which it is for you to-day to decide), such a man has 
no trial. That great hall, built by our fathers for English justice, 
is no longer a court, but an altar ; and an Englishman, instead of 
being judged in it by God and his country, is a victim and a 
sacrifice. 

One word more, gentlemen, and I have done. Every human 
tribunal ought to take care to administer justice, as we look here- 
after to have justice administered to ourselves. Upon the prin- 
ciple on which the attorney-general prays sentence upon my 
client, God have mercy upon us! Instead of standing before him 
in judgment with the hopes and consolations of Christians, we 
must call upon the mountains to cover us; for which of us can 
present, for omniscient examination, a pure, unspotted, and 
faultless course ? But I humbly expect that the benevolent 
Author of our being will judge us as I have been pointing out 
for your example. Holding up the great volume of our lives in 
his hands, and regarding the general scope of them, if he dis- 
covers benevolence, charity, and good-will to man beating in the 



164 ERSKINE. [GEORGE IV. 

heart, where he alone can look — if he finds that our conduct, 
though often forced out of the path by our infirmities, has been 
in general well directed, his all-searching eye will assuredly never 
pursue us into those little corners of our lives, much less will his 
justice select them for punishment, without the general context 
of our existence, by which faults may be sometimes found to have 
grown out of virtues, and very many of our heaviest ofi"ences to 
have been grafted by human imperfection upon the best and 
kindest of our aff"ections. No, gentlemen, believe me, this is not 
the course of divine justice, or there is no truth in the Gospel of 
Heaven. If the general tenor of a man's conduct be such 
as I have represented it, he may walk through the shadow of 
death, with all his faults about him, with as much cheerfulness 
as in the common paths of life, because he knows that, instead of 
a stern accuser to expose before the Author of his nature those 
frail passages, which, like the scored matter in the book before 
you, checkers the volume of the brightest and best spent life, his 
mercy will obscure them from the eye of his purity, and our re- 
pentance blot them out forever. 

Speech on the Trial of StocJcdale. 



THE BRIGHTEST ORNAMENTS OF OUR RACE CHRISTIANS. 

How any man can rationally vindicate the publication of such 
a book, in a country where the Christian religion is the very 
foundation of the law of the land, I am totally at a loss to con- 
ceive, and have no ideas for the discussion of. How is a tribunal, 
whose whole jurisdiction is founded upon the solemn belief and 
practice of what is here denied as falsehood, and reprobated as 
impiety, to deal with such an anomalous defence ? Upon what 
principle is it even ofiered to the court, whose authority is con- 
temned and mocked at ? If the religion proposed to be called in 
question is not previously adopted in belief and solemnly acted 
upon, what authority has the court to pass any judgment at all of 
acquittal or condemnation ? Why am I now, or upon any other 
occasion, to submit to his lordship's authority ? Why am I now, 
or at any time, to address twelve of my equals, as I am now 
addressing you, with reverence and submission ? Under what 
sanction are the witnesses to give their evidence, without which 
there can be no trial ? Under what obligations can I call upon 
you, the jury representing your country, to administer justice ? 
Surely upon no other than that you are sworn to administer it 
under the oaths you have taken. The whole judicial fabric, from 



1820-1830.] ERSKiNE. 165 

the king's sovereign authority to the lowest office of magistracy, 
has no other foundation. The whole is built, both in form and 
substance, upon the same oath of every one of its ministers to do 
justice, as God shall help them hereafter. What God P And 
what hereafter ? That God, undoubtedly, who has commanded 
kings to rule, and judges to decree justice; who has said to wit- 
nesses, not only by the voice of nature, but in revealed command- 
ments. Thou shalt not hear false testimony against Hiy neiglibor; 
and who has enforced obedience to them by the revelation of the 
unutterable blessings which shall attend their observance, and the 
awful punishments which shall await upon their transgression. 
- But it seems this is an age of reason, and the time and the 
person are at last arrived that are to dissipate the errors which 
have overspread the past generations of ignorance. The believers 
in Christianity are many, but it belongs to the few that are wise 
to correct their credulity. Belief is an act of reason, and superior 
reason may, therefore, dictate to the weak. In running the mind 
over the long list of sincere and devout Christians, I cannot help 
lamenting that Newton had not lived to this day, to have had his 
shallowness filled up with this new flood of light. But the sub- 
ject is too awful for irony. I will speak plainly and directly. 
Newton was a Christian ! Newton, whose mind burst forth from 
the fetters fastened by nature upon our finite conceptions ; New- 
ton, whose science was truth, and the foundation of whose know- 
ledge of it was philosophy, not those visionary and arrogant 
presumptions which too often usurp its name, but philosophy 
resting upon the basis of mathematics, which, like figures, cannot 
lie ; Newton, who carried the line and rule to the uttermost bar- 
riers of creation, and explored the principles by which all created 
matter exists and is held together. 

But this extraordinary man, in the mighty reach of his mind, 
overlooked, perhaps, the errors which a minuter investigation of 
the created things on this earth might have taught him. What 
shall then be said of the great Mr. Boyle, who looked into the 
organic structure of all matter, even to the inanimate substances 
which the foot treads on ? Such a man may be supposed to have 
been equally qualified with Mr. Paine to look through nature up 
to nature's &od ; yet the result of all his contemplations was the 
most confirmed and devout belief in all which the other holds in 
contempt, as despicable and drivelling superstition. 

But this error might, perhaps, arise from a want of due atten- 
tion to the foundations of human judgment, and the structure of 
that understanding which God has given us for the investigation 
of truth. Let that question be answered by Mr. Locke, who, to 

15- 



166 ERSKINE. [GEORGE IV. 

the highest pitch of devotion and adoration, was a Christian — 
Mr. Locke, whose office was to detect the errors of thinking by 
going up to the very fountains of thought, and to direct into the 
proper track of reasoning the devious mind of man, by showing 
him its whole process, from the first perceptions of sense to the 
last conclusions of ratiocination ; putting a rein upon false opinion 
by practical rules for the conduct of human judgment. 

But these men, it may be said, were only deep thinkers, and 
lived in their closets, unaccustomed to the traffic of the world and 
to the laws which practically regulate mankind. Gentlemen, in 
the place where we now sit to administer the justice of this great 
country, the never-to-be-forgotten Sir Matthew Hale presided, 
whose faith in Christianity is an exalted commentary upon its 
truth and reason, and whose life was a glorious example of its 
fruits; whose justice, drawn from the pure fountain of the Chris- 
tian dispensation, will be, in all ages, a subject of the highest 
reverence and admiration. 

But it is said by this author that the Christian fable is but the 
tale of the more ancient superstitions of the world, and may be 
easily detected by a proper understanding of the mythologies of 
the heathens. Did Milton understand those mythologies ? Was 
he less versed than Mr. Paine in the superstitions of the world ? 
No; — they were the subject of his immortal song, and, though 
shut out from all recurrence to them, he poured them forth from 
the stores of a memory rich with all that man ever knew, and 
laid them in their order as the illustration of that real and exalted 
faith, the unquestionable source of that fervid genius which has 
cast a sort of shade upon most of the other works of man — 

" He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: 
The living Throne, the sapphire blaze, 
Where angels tremble while they gaze. 
He saw : but, blasted with excess of light, 
Clos'd his eyes in endless night." 

But it was the light of the lod^ only that was extinguished : 
"The celestial light shone inward, and enabled him to justify 
the ways of God to man." * * * 

Thus you find all that is great, or wise, or splendid, or illus- 
trious, amongst created beings; all the minds gifted beyond 
ordinary nature, if not inspired by its universal Author for the 
advancement and dignity of the world, though divided by distant 
ages and by clashing opinions, yet joining as it were in one sub- 
lime chorus to celebrate the truths of Christianity, laying upon 
its holy altars the never-fading offerings of their immortal 
wisdom. 



1820-1830.] BYRON. , 167 



GEORGE GORDON BYRON, 1788—1824. 

There are some names in literary history that we would gladly pass 
over in silence, were it not that their talents and genius demand some 
notice from the chronicler of letters. This is the case with Lord Byron. 
Such was his waywardness of character, such his vicious propensities, and 
such his gross licentiousness and open infidelity, that we would gladly do 
our part that his name should be forever buried in oblivion, were it not 
that, in consequence of his brilliant genius and his uncommon mental 
endowments, the interest of the public mind was so generally, and for so 
long a time, concentrated upon him. We must, therefore, give him a place 
among the authors of the nineteenth century. 

George Gordon Byron, the only son of Captain Byron and Catharine, 
sole child and heiress of George Gordon, Esq., of Gight, in Scotland, was 
born in London on the 22d of January, 1788. After preparing for the 
University at Harrow School, he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, 
1805, with a reputation for general information very rare in one of his age. 
Indeed, we have his own record of an almost incredible list of works, in 
many departments of literature, which he had read before the age of fifteen. 
At the university, he neglected the prescribed course of study, but was by 
no means idle. In 1807, appeared his first published work, " The Hours 
of Idleness," a collection of poems in no way remarkable, and now chiefly 
remembered through the castigation which it received through the " Edin- 
burgh Review." To this critique, which galled, but did not depress him, 
we owe the first spirited outbreak of his talents, in the satire entitled 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," which was published in 1809. 
Able and vigorous as this was, and creditable to his talents, it contained so 
many harsh and absurd judgments, that he was afterwards anxious to sup- 
press it. 

A few days before the publication of this satire, he took his seat in the 
House of Lords ; but he was ill qualified to shine in politics, and made no 
impression. The same year he left England, and travelled on the conti- 
nent. In 1811, he returned home, his private affairs being much em- 
barrassed, and having lost his mother. He brought with him the two 
first cantos of " Childe Harold," which he had written abroad. They 
were published in March, 1812, and were received by the public with the 
most unbounded admiration, so that Byron emerged at once from a state 
of loneliness and neglect, unusual for one in his sphere of life, to be the 
magnet and idol of society. As he tersely says in his memoranda, " I 
awoke one morning, and found myself famous." In May of the next 
year, appeared his " Giaour;" and in November, the " Bride of Abydos" 
(written in a week) ; and, about three months afterwards, the " Corsair," 
written in the astonishingly short space often days. On the 2d of January, 
1815, he was married to Miss Milbanke, the only daughter and heiress 
of Sir Ralph Milbanke, the only issue of which marriage was Augusta 



168 BYRON. [GEORGE IV. 

Ada, born on the 10th of December of that year. On the 15ih of January 
of the next year, the husband and wife separated for ever. The cause of 
this was, and still is, a mystery. But most of those who composed the 
circles in which Lord Byron moved declared against him, and society with- 
drew its countenance. Deeply stung by the verdict, he resolved to leave 
his country, and on the 25th of April, 1816, he quitted England for the last 
time. His course was through Flanders, and along the Rhine to Switzer- 
land, where he resided until the close of the year, and where he com- 
posed some of his most powerful works — the third canto of " Childe 
Harold," the " Prisoner of Chillon," "Darkness," " The Dream," part 
of " Manfred," and a few minor poems. The next year he went to 
Italy, where, for a course of years, he gave himself up to the grossest 
species of libertinism; and where, as might be expected, he wrote his 
most licentious and blasphemous works. 

In 1823, he interested himself warmly in the cauce of the Greeks, 
then struggling to throw off the Turkish yoke ; and in December of that 
year, sailed for Greece, with all the funds he could command, to aid the 
oppressed in their efforts for freedom. This was, certainly, a redeem- 
ing trait in his character, and we are glad to record it. On the 5th of 
January, 1824, he arrived at Missolonghi, where his reception was enthu- 
siastic, the whole population coming out to meet him. But he had scarcely 
arranged his plans to aid the nation he had so befriended, when he was 
seized with a fever, and expired on the 19th of April, 1824. 

Of the character of Lord Byron's poetry, there can be but one opinion 
with every honest and pure mind — that, while it exhibits powers of de- 
scription unusually great, and is full of passages of exquisite beauty, it 
cannot, as a whole, be read without the most injurious influence upon 
the moral sensibilities. The tendency of it is to shake our confidence in 
virtue, and to diminish our abhorrence of vice; to palliate crime, and to 
unsettle our notions of right and wrong. " Humiliating was the waste and 
degradation of his genius, and melancholy is the power which his poetry 
has exerted upon multitudes of minds.' The moral tendency of some of 
his poems is exceedingly pernicious : his complete works ought never to 
be purchased, and we may feel proud not to be acquainted with them, 
except by extracts and beauties." Indeed, if any one should possess the 
fiendish desire to break down the principles of virtue in any young man or 
young woman, the best way to begin would be to put a copy of Byron's 
works into the hands of the destined victim. " Forewarned — forearmed." 



THE DYING GLADIATOR.^ 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 

» And yet there are said to be schools where his works are regularly 
studied. Proh pudor ! 
2 We read with horror the accounts of the gladiatorial exhibitions among the 



1820-1830.] BYRON. -o 169 

Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear, 
That we become a part of what has been. 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing, but unseen. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, 
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughtered 1 wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody circus' genial laws. 
And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

I see before me the gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his drooped head sinks gradually low ; 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him ; he is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. 

He heard it, but he heeded not; his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away : 
He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize ; 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday. 
All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, 
And unavenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 

Romans, so barbarous, so brutal ; and were not the historical evidence irrefuta- 
ble, we could hardly believe that in one city alone (Capua) forty thousand 
were kept, and fed, and trained to butcher each other for the gratification of 
the Roman people. But let us be honest, and not have too much self-com- 
placency. " Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye, and 
then shalt thou see clearly to pull the mote out of thy brother's eye." What 
better, in principle, are the modern military " schools" — the modern hidi 
gladiatorii — among so called Christian nations ? Are not young men trained 
in them, for years, to learn the art of human butchery — to learn how to kill 
their fellow men most scientifically ? May the day speedily come when our 
land, by utterly abolishing such establishments, shall set, in this respect, a 
Christian example to all the nations of the earth ! 



170 BYRON. [GEORGE IV. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; 
I love not man the less, but nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and. dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
Ten thousand, fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan — 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffined, and. unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray. 
And howling to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth : there let him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations qnake. 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals; 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war : 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria^ Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they 1 
Thy waters wasted them while Uiey were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow : 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. 



1820-1830.] BYRON. 171 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports M^as on tliy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear ; 
For I was, as it were, a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



NIGHT AT CORINTH.^ 

'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown 
The cold round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
And turned to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away. 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
But murmured meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillowed on the waves; 
The banners drooped along their staves. 
And, as they fell around them furling, 
Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was unbroke. 
Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill. 
And echo answered from the hill. 
And the wild hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 

* In 1715, Corinth, then in the possession of the Venetians, was besieged by 
the Turks. In the " Siege of Corinth," Byron describes one of the delicious 
niffhts of that fine climate. 



172 BYRON. [GEORGE IV. 

As rose the Muezzin's^ voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer. 



A CALM NIGHT AT LAKE GENEVA. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and, drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers, yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life and infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 



AN ALPINE STORM AT THE SAME. 

The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the hght 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

* Tke Mitezziii's voice. The Turks do not use bells to summon the re- 
ligious to their devotions. They have an appointed person, whose function 
It is to send forth, to the extent of his voice, the call to vjonted prayer . 



1820-1830.] BYRON. 173 

And this is in the night: — most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 



MODERN GREECE. 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 

Ere the first day of death is fled, 

The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress 

(Before decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers). 

And mark'd the mild angehc air. 

The rapture of repose that's there, 

The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 

The languor of the placid cheek, 

And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 

Where cold obstruction's apathy 

Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 

Yes, but for these, and these alone. 

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 

He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 

So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 

The first, last look by death reveal'd ! 

Such is the aspect of this shore; 

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 

We start, for soul is wanting there. 

Hers is the loveliness in death. 

That parts not quite with parting breath ; 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay, 

The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! 



16 



174 BYRON. [GEORGE IV. 



SOLITUDE. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen. 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 



DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleejjers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are laid in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 



1820-1830.] BYRON. 175 

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath meUed like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



THE EAST. 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine. 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit. 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in die ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine 1 
'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. 



THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT. 

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 

Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful ! 

I linger yet with Nature, for the night 

Hath been to me a more familiar face 

Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 

Of dim and solitary loveliness, 

I learned the language of another world. 

I do remember me, that in my youth. 

When I was wandering, upon such a night 

I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 

'Midst the chief relics of all-mighty Rome : 

The trees which grew along the broken arches 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 

Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar 

The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and 

More near, from out the Csesars' palace came 

The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 

Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 

Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 



176 BYRON. [GEORGE IV. 

Within a bowshot. Where the Coesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levelled battlements, 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; 

But the gladiators' bloody circus stands 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesar's chambers and the Augustan halls 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which softened down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and filled up, 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o"er 

With silent worship of the great of old — 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns ! 



A SHIPWRECK. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale; 

And the long-boat's condition M^as but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored. 

To save one half the people then on board. 

'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail ; 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 
And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 

And the dim desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars. 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 

And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell! 
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave; 



1820-1830.] BYRON. 177 

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 

As eager to anticipate their grave; 
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

And first one universal shriek there rush'd. 

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd. 

Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 
Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

***** 
The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 

Blister'd and scorch'd ; and, stagnant on the sea 
They lay like carcasses; and hope was none. 

Save in the breeze that came not; savagely 
They glared upon each other — all was done, 

Water, and wine, and food — and you might see 
The longings of the cannibal arise 
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round. 

And then a hoarser murmur grew, 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 

And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 

And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

Tliere_were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
But he died early ; and when he was gone, 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 

One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done ! 

I can do nothing !" and he saw him thrown 

Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit, held aloof his fate ; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled. 

As if to win a part from off" the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from oft' his face, but wiped the foam 

16* 



178 BARBAULD. [GEORGE IX 

From Lis pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 

And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come, 
And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 

Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
Into his dying child's mouth — but m vain. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay. 
And look'd upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 

He watched it wistfully, until away 

'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast ; 

Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering, 

And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. 



ANNA L^TITIA BARBAULD, 1743—1825. 

Anna Ljetitia Barbauld, a name long dear to the admirers of genius 
and the lovers of virtue, was the eldest child and only daughter of the Rev. 
John Aikin, master of a boys' school in the village of Kibworth Harcourt, 
in Leicestershire, and was born in that place on the 20th of June, 1743. In 
her very earliest childhood she discovered remarkable powers of mind, being 
able to read quite well at two and a half years of age. Her education was 
conducted by her father, and was of a very solid character ; and though at 
that day there was a strong prejudice against imparting to females any tincture 
of classical learning, she devoted a portion of her time to the study of Latin, 
and before she was fifteen she had read many authors inthat language with 
pleasure and advantage : nor did she rest satisfied without gaining some 
acquaintance with the Greek. 

In 1758, when Miss Aikin had just attained the age of fifteen, her father 
removed from the somewhat obscure village of Kibworth to take charge of 
the classical department in the "dissenting" academy at Warrington, in 
Lancashire, to which he had been invited. In the cultivated society of 
this place, she found most congenial associates, and here for fifteen years 
she passed probably the happiest, as well as the most brilliant, portion of 
her existence. In 1773, she was induced by her brother to collect the various 
poems she had from time to time written, and arrange them for publication. 
She did so ; and with so much favor were they received by the public, that 
four editions were called for within that year. Her brother also induced 
her to join him in forming a small volume of prose pieces, which was pub- 
hshed that same year, under the title of " Miscellaneous Pieces, in Prose, 
by J. and A. L. Aikin." These likewise met with much approbation, and 
have been several times reprinted. 



1820-1830.] BARBAULD. 179 

In 1774, Miss Aikin was mariied to the Rev. Rochemond Barbauld, a 
descendant from a family of French Protestants. Soon after this, Mr. Bar- 
bauld opened a boarding-school for boys in the village of Palgrave, in 
Suffolk. The rapid and uninterrupted success which crowned this under- 
taking was doubtless owing, in a great measure, to the literary celebrity 
attached to the name of Mrs. Barbauld, who took part with her husband 
in the business of instruction. It was for the benefit of the younger class 
of scholars that she composed her " Hymns in Prose for Children." "The 
business of tuition, however," says her biographer. Miss Aikin, " to those 
by whom it is fahhfully and zealously exercised, must ever be fatiguing 
beyond almost any other occupation ; and Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld found 
their health and spirits so much impaired by their exertions that, at the end 
of eleven years, they determined upon quitting Palgrave, and allowing them- 
selves an interval of complete relaxation before they should again embark 
in any scheme of active life." Accordingly, in the autumn of 1785, they 
embarked for the continent, and, after spending nearly a year in Switzerland 
and France, returned to England in June, 1786. In the spring of the 
next year, Mr. Barbauld was elected pastor of a " dissenting" congregation 
in Hampstead, where for several years he received a few lads as his 
pupils, while Mrs. B. gave instruction to two or three girls. But her pen 
did not long remain idle. In 1790, and in the few subsequent years, ap- 
peared her *' Poetical Epistle to Mr. Wilberforce" on the rejection of his 
bill for abolishing the Slave Trade — her " Remarks on Mr. Gilbert Wake- 
field's Inquiry into the Expediency and Propriety of Public or Social 
Worship" — and her "Sins of Government, Sins of the Nation," &c. 

In 1802, Mr. Barbauld accepted an invitation to become pastor of the 
congregation at Newington Green, and, quitting Hampstead, they took their 
abode in the village of Stoke Newington. In 1804, she offered to the public 
" Selections from the ' Spectator,' ' Tatler,' * Guardian,' and ' Freeholder,' 
with a Preliminary Essay." This essay has ever been considered a very fine 
piece of criticism, and the most successful of her efforts in that department of 
literature. Hitherto Mrs. Barbauld's life had been almost one uninterrupted 
course of happiness and prosperity. But she was soon to experience one 
of the severest of all trials, in the loss of her husband, who, after a most 
lingering illness, expired on the 11th of November, 1808. A beautiful 
memoir of his character, doubtless from her pen, appeared shortly after in 
the " Monthly Repository of Theology and General Literature ;" ard in her 
poem of " Eighteen Hundred and Eleven" she touchingly alludes to 

" That sad death whence most affection bleeds." 

Mrs. Barbauld published but little after this: a gentle and scarcely percep- 
tible decline was now sloping for herself the passage to the tomb ; and on 
the morning of March 9, 1825, after a few days' illness, she expired 
without a struggle, in the eighty- second year of her age. 

To claim for Mrs. Barbauld the praise of purity and elevation of mind, 
might well appear superfluous. She is decidedly one of the most eminent 
female writers which England has produced ; and both in prose and poetry 
she takes the highest rank. Her prose style is easy and graceful, alike cal- 



180 BARBAULD. [GEORGE IV. 

culated to engage the most common and the most elevated understanding. 
Her " Essay on Romances" is aprofessed imitation of the style of Dr. John- 
son ; and he is himself said to have allowed it to be the best that was ever 
attempted, " because it reflected the color of his thoughts, no less than the 
turn of his expressions." Her poems are addressed more to the feelings 
than to the imagination ; but the language never becomes prosaic, and has 
sublimity and pathos, without bombast or affectation. Her hymns are 
among the best sacred lyrics in the language, and it has been justly said 
of her that " the spirit of piety and benevolence that breathes through her 
works pervaded her life."' 



ON EDUCATION. 

The first tiling to be considered, with respect to education, is 
the object of it. This appears to me to have been generally mis- 
understood. Education, in its largest sense, is a thing of great 
scope and extent. It includes the whole process by which a hu- 
man being is formed to be what he is, in habits, principles, and 
cultivation of every kind. But of this, a very small part is in 
the power even of the parent himself; a smaller still can be di- 
rected by purchased tuition of any kind. You engage for your 
child masters and tutors at large salaries; and you do well, for 
they are competent to instruct him : they will give him the means, 
at least, of acquiring science and accomplishments; but in the 
business of education, properly so called, they can do little for 
you. Do you ask, then, what will educate your son? Your 
example will educate him : your conversation with your friends ; 
the business he sees you transact; the likings and dislikings you 
express ; these will educate him : the society you live in will edu- 
cate him; your domestics will educate him; above all, your rank 
and situation in life, your house, your table, will educate him. 
It is not in your power to withdraw him from the continual influ- 
ence of these things, except you were to withdraw yourself from 
them also. You speak of heginning the education of your son. 
The moment he was able to form an idea, his education was already 
begun; the education of circumstances — insensible education — 
which, like insensible perspiration, is of more constant and power- 
ful effect, and of infinitely more consequence to the habit, than 
that which is direct and apparent. This education goes on at 
every instant of time; it goes on like time; you can neither stop 
it nor turn its course. What these have a tendency to make your 
child, that he will be. Maxims and documents are good precisely 

' Read a Memoir of Mrs. Barbauld by Miss Lucy Aikin. 



1820-1830.] BARBAULD. 181 

till they are tried, and no longer : they will teach him to talk, and 
nothing more. The circumstances in which your son is placed will 
be even more prevalent than your example ; and you have no right 
to expect him to become what you yourself are, but by the same 
means. You, that have toiled during youth, to set your son upon 
higher ground, and to enable him to begin where you left off, do 
not expect that son to be what you were — diligent, modest, active, 
simple in his tastes, fertile in resources. You have put him under 
quite a different master. Poverty educated you; wealth will edu- 
cate him. You cannot suppose the result will be the same. You 
must not even expect that he will be what you now are; for 
though relaxed, perhaps, from the severity of your frugal habits, 
you still derive advantage from having formed them ; and, in your 
heart, you like plain dinners, and early hours, and old friends, 
whenever your fortune will permit you to enjoy them. But it will 
not be so with your son : his tastes will be formed by your present 
situation, and in no degree by your former one. * * * You 
are sensible of the benefit of early rising; and you may, if you 
please, make it a point that your daughter and your son shall retire 
at the hour when you are preparing to see company. But their 
sleep, in the first place, will not be so sweet and undisturbed amidst 
the rattle of carriages, and the glare of tapers glancing through 
the rooms, as that of the village child in his quiet cottage, pro- 
tected by silence and darkness : and, moreover, you may depend 
upon it that, as the coercive power of education is laid aside, they 
will in a few months slide into the habitudes of the rest of the 
family, whose hours are determined by their company and situa- 
tion in life. You have, however, done good, as far as it goes; it 
is something gained, to defer pernicious habits, if we cannot pre- 
vent them. 

There is nothing which has so little share in education as direct 
precept. I do not mean to assert that sentiments inculcated in 
education have no influence; they have much, though not the 
most : but it is the sentiments we let drop occasionally, the con- 
versation they overhear when playing unnoticed in a corner of the 
room, which has an effect upon children ; and not what is addressed 
directly to them in the tone of exhortation. If you would know 
precisely the effect these set discourses have upon your child, be 
pleased to reflect upon that which a discourse from the pulpit, 
which you have reason to think merely professional, has upon you. 
Children have almost an intuitive discernment between the maxims 
you bring forward for their use, and those by which you direct 
your own conduct. Be as cunning as you will, they are always 
more cunning than you. Every child knows whom his father and 



182 BARBAULD. [GEORGE IV. 

mother love and see with pleasure, and whom they dislike; for 
whom they think themselves obliged to set out their best plate and 
china; whom they think it an honor to visit, and upon whom they 
confer honor by admitting them to their company. " Respect no- 
thing so much as virtue," says Eugenio to his son; "virtue and 
talents are the only grounds of distinction." The child presently 
has occasion to inquire why his father pulls off his hat to some 
people and not to others : he is told that outward respect must be 
proportioned to different stations in life. This is a little difficult of 
comprehension : however, by dint of explanation, he gets over it 
tolerably well. But he sees his father's house in the bustle and 
hurry of preparation; common business laid aside, everybody in 
movement, an unusual anxiety to please and to shine. Nobody is 
at leisure to receive his caresses or attend to his questions; his 
lessons are interrupted, his hours deranged. At length a guest 

arrives : it is my Lord , whom he has heard you speak of 

twenty times as one of the most worthless characters upon earth. 
Your child, Eugenio, has received a lesson of education. Resume, 
if you will, your systems of morality on the morrow ; you will in 
vain attempt to eradicate it. "You expect company, mamma; 
must I be dressed to day ?" " No, it is only good Mrs. Such-a-one." 
Your child has received a lesson of education ; one which he well 
understands, and will long remember. * * * 

But the education of your house, important as it is, is only a 
part of a more comprehensive system. Providence takes your child 
where you leave him. Providence continues his education upon 
a larger scale, and by a process which includes means far more 
efficacious. Has your son entered the world at eighteen, opinion- 
ated, haughty, rash, inclined to dissipation? Do not despair; he 
may yet be cured of these faults, if it pleases Heaven. There are 
remedies which you could not persuade yourself to use, if they 
were in your power, and which are specific in cases of this kind. 
How often do we see the presumptuous, giddy youth changed into 
the wise counsellor, the considerate, steady friend ! How often the 
thoughtless, gay girl into the sober wife, the affectionate mother ! 
Faded beauty, humbled self-consequence, disappointed ambition, 
loss of fortune — this is the rough physic provided by Providence 
to meliorate the temper, to correct the offensive petulancies of 
youth, and bring out all the energies of the finished character. 
Afflictions soften the proud; difficulties push forward the inge- 
nious ; successful industry gives consequence and credit, and deve- 
lops a thousand latent good qualities. There is no malady of the 
mind so inveterate, which this education of events is not calculated 
to cure, if life were long enough ; and shall we not hope that He, 



1820-1830.] BARBAULD. 183 

in whose hand are all the remedial processes of nature, will renew 
the discipline in another state, and finish the imperfect man ?^ 



SINS or GOVERNMENT; SINS OP THE NATION. 

We act as a nation when, through the organ of the legislative 
power, which speaks the will of the nation, and by means of the 
executive power which does the will of the nation, we enact laws, 
form alliances, make war or peace, dispose of the public money, 
or do any of those things which belong to us in our collective 
capacity; and we are called upon to repent of national sins, be- 
cause we can help them, and because we ought to help them. We 
are not fondly to imagine we can make government the scapegoat 
to answer for our follies and our crimes : by the services of this 
day^ they call upon us to answer for them; they throw the blame 
where it ought ultimately to rest ; that is, where the power ulti- 
mately rests. It were trifling with our consciences to endeavor to 
separate the acts of governors sanctioned by the nation, from the 
acts of the nation; for, in every transaction, the principal is answer- 
able for the conduct of the agents he employs to transact it. If 
the maxim that the king can do no wrong throws upon ministers 
the responsibility, because without ministers no wrong could be 
done, the same reason throws it from them upon the people, with- 
out whom ministers could do no wrong. 

The vices of nations may be divided into those which relate to 
their own internal proceedings, or to their relations with other 
states. With regard to the first, the causes for humiliation are 
various. Many nations are guilty of the crime of permitting op- 
pressive laws and bad governments to remain amongst them, by 
which the poor are crushed, and the lives of the innocent are laid 
at the mercy of wicked and arbitrary men. This is a national sin 
of the deepest dye, as it involves in it most others. It is painful 
to reflect how many atrocious governments there are in the world ; 
and how little even they who enjoy good ones seem to understand 
their true nature. We are apt to speak of the happiness of living 
under a mild government, as if it were like the happiness of living 
under an indulgent climate; and when we thank God for it, we 
rank it with the blessings of the air and of the soil; whereas we 

* I regret that my limited space will not allow me to take more from this 
most admirable essay on education— the best, 1 hesitate not to say, that I have 
ever read. 

2 A day for a National Fast. 



184 BARBAULD. [GEORGE IV. 

ought to thank God for the wisdom and virtue of living under a 
good government; for a good government is the first of national 
duties. It is indeed a happiness, and one which demands our most 
grateful thanks, to be born under one which spares us the trouble 
and hazard of changing it : but a people born under a good govern- 
ment will probably not die under one, if they conceive of it as of 
an indolent and passive happiness, to be left for its preservation 
to fortunate conjunctures, and the floating and variable chances of 
incalculable events : our second duty is to keep it good. 

Amongst our national faults, have we any instances of cruelty 
or oppression to repent of? Can we look round from sea to sea, 
and from east to west, and say that our brother hath not aught 
against us? If such instances do not exist under cur immediate 
eye, do they exist anywhere under our influence and jurisdiction? 
There are some, whose nerves, rather than whose principles, can- 
not bear cruelty ; like other nuisances, they would not choose it 
in sight, but they can be well content to know it exists, and that 
they are indebted for it to the increase of their income, and the 
luxuries of their table. Are there not some darker-colored chil- 
dren of the same family, over whom we assume a hard and unjust 
control ? And have not these our brethren aught against us ? If 
we suspect they have, would it not become us anxiously to inquire 
into the truth, that we may deliver our souls ? But if we know it, 
and cannot help knowing it, if such enormities have been pressed 
and forced upon our notice, till they are become flat and stale in 
the public ear, from fulness and repetition, and satiety of proof; 
and if they are still sanctioned by our legislature, defended by our 
princes — deep indeed is the color of our guilt ! And do we appoint 
fasts, and make pretences to religion? Do we pretend to be 
shocked at the principles or the practices of neighboring nations, 
and start with afi"ected horror at the name of Atheist? Are our 
consciences so tender, and our hearts so hard ? Is it possible we 
should meet as a nation, and knowing ourselves to be guilty of 
these things, have the confidence to implore the blessing of God 
upon our commerce and our colonies, preface with prayer our 
legislative meetings, and then deliberate how long we shall con- 
tinue human sacrifices ? Rather let us 

Never pray more, abandon all remorse. 

Let us lay aside the grimace of hypocrisy, stand up for what we 
are, and boldly profess, like the emperor of old, that everything 
is sweet from which money is extracted, and that we know better 
than to deprive ourselves of a gain for the sake of a fellow- 
creature. 

A Discourse for the Fast, April 19, 1793. 



1820-1830.] BARBAULD. 185 



WHAT IS WAR? 

We should do well to translate this word WAR into language 
more intelligible to us. When we pay our army and our navy 
estimates, let us set down — so much for killing, so much for maim- 
ing, so much for making widows and orphans, so much for bring- 
ing famine upon a district, so much for corrupting citizens and 
subjects into spies and traitors, so much for ruining industrious 
tradesmen and making bankrupts, so much for letting loose the 
demons of fury, rapine, and lust within the fold of cultivated so- 
ciety, and giving to the brutal ferocity of the most ferocious its 
full scope and range of invention. We shall by this means know 
what we have paid our money for, whether we have made a good 
bargain, and whether the account is likely to pass — elsewhere. 
We must take in, too, all those concomitant circumstances which 
make war, considered as battle, the least part of itself. We must 
fix our eyes, not on the hero returning with conquest, nor yet on 
the gallant officer dying in the bed of honor(?) — the subject of pic- 
ture and of song — but on the private soldier, forced into the service, 
exhausted by camp-sickness and fatigue; pale, emaciated, crawling 
to an hospital with the prospect of life, perhaps a long life, blasted, 
useless, and suffering. We must think of the uncounted tears of 
her who weeps alone, because the only being who shared her sen- 
timents is taken from her : no martial music sounds in unison with 
her feelings; the long day passes, and he returns not. She does 
not shed her sorrows over his grave, for she has never learnt 
whether he ever had one. If he had returned, his exertions would 
not have been remembered individually, for he only made a small 
imperceptible part of a human machine, called a regiment. We 
must take in the long sickness, which no glory soothes, occasioned 
by distress of mind, anxiety, and ruined fortunes. These are not 
fancy-pictures; and if you please to heighten them, you can every 
one of you do it for yourselves. We must take in the conse- 
quences, felt perhaps for ages, before a country, which has been 
completely desolated, lifts its head again : like a torrent of lava, 
its worst mischief is not the first overwhelming ruin of towns and 
palaces, but the long sterility to which it condemns the tract it 
has covered with its stream. Add the danger to regular govern- 
ments, which are changed by war, sometimes to anarchy, and some- 
times to despotism. Add all these, and then let us think when 
a general, performing these exploits, is saluted with ^^Well done, 
17 



186 BARBAULD. [GEORGE IV. 

good and faithful servant/^ whether the plaudit is likely to be 
echoed in another place. 

In this guilty business there is a circumstance which greatly 
aggravates its guilt, and that is the impiety of calling upon the 
Divine Being to assist us in it. Almost all nations have been in 
the habit of mixing with their bad passions a show of religion, 
and of prefacing these their murders with prayers and the solem- 
nities of worship. When they send out their armies to desolate a 
country and destroy the fair face of nature, they have the presump- 
tion to hope that the Sovereign of the Universe will condescend 
to be their auxiliary, and to enter iiito their petty and despicable 
contests. Their prayer, if put into plain language, would run 
thus : " God of love, father of all the families of the earth, we are 
going to tear in pieces our brethren of mankind, but our strength 
is not equal to our fury; we beseech thee to assist us in the work 
of slaughter. Go out, we pray thee, with our fleets and armies; 
we call them Christian, and we have interwoven in our banners 
and the decorations of our arms, the symbols of a suff'ering reli- 
gion, that we may fight under the cross upon which our Saviour 
died. Whatever mischief we do, we shall do it in thy name; we 
hope, therefore, thou wilt protect us in it. Thou, who hast made 
of one blood all the dwellers upon the earth, we trust thou wilt 
view us alone with partial favor, and enable us to bring misery 
upon every other quarter of the globe." Now if we really expect 
such prayers to be answered, we are the weakest, if not, we are 
the most hypocritical, of beings. 

The same Discourse. 



THE mouse's petition.* 

hear a pensive prisoner's prayer, 

For liberty that sighs ; 
And never let thine heart be shut 

Against the wretch's cries! 

For here forlorn and sad I sit, 

Within the wiry grate ; 
And tremble at the approaching morn, 

Which brings impending fate. 

If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed, 

And spurned a tyrant's chain, 
Let not thy strong oppressive force 

A free-born mouse detain ! 

* Found in the trap where he had been confined all night by Dr. Priestley, 
for the sake of making experiments with diflerent kinds of air. 



1820-1830.] BARBAULD. 187 

do not stain with guiltless blood 

Thy hospitable hearth! 
Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed 

A prize so little worth. 

The scattered gleanings of a feast 

My frugal meals supply ; 
But if thine unrelenting heart 

That slender boon deny — 

The cheerful light, the vital air, 

Are blessings widely given j 
Let Nature's commoners enjoy 

The common gifts of Heaven. 

The well-taught, philosophic mind 

To all compassion gives ; 
Casts round the world an equal eye, 

And feels for all that lives. 

If mind — as ancient sages taught — 

A never-dying flame, 
Still shifts through matter's varying forms, 

In every form the same; 

Beware, lest in the worm you crush, 

A brother's soul you find ; 
And tremble lest thy luckless hand 

Dislodge a kindred mind. 

Or, if this transient gleam of day 

Be all of life we share. 
Let pity plead within thy breast 

That little all to spare. 

So may thy hospitable board 

With health and peace be crowned; 
And every charm of heartfelt ease 

Beneath thy roof be found. 

So when destruction lurks unseen, 

Which men, like mice, may share, 
May some kind angel clear thy path, 

And break the hidden snare ! 



A CHARACTER. 

O born to soothe distress and lighten care. 
Lively as soft, and innocent as fair! 
Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought 
So rarely found, and never to be taught ; 
Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind, 
The loveliest pattern of a female mind ; 
Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest, 
With all her native heaven within her breast; 



188 BARBAULD. [GEORGE IV. 

So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin, 
But thinks the world without like that within ; 
Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless, 
Her charity almost becomes excess. 
Wealth may be courted. Wisdom be revered, 
And Beauty praised, and brutal strength be feared ; 
But Goodness only can affection move, 
And love must owe its origin to love. 



HYMN TO CONTENT. 

thou, the Nymph with placid eye ! 
O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! 

Receive my temperate vow : 
Not all the storms that shake the pole 
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, 

And smooth unaltered brow. 

O come, in simple vest arrayed, 
With all thy sober cheer displayed, 

To bless my longing sight; 
Thy mien composed, thy even pace. 
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, 

And chaste subdued delight. 

No more by varying passions beat, 
O gently guide my pilgrim feet 

To find thy hermit cell ; 
Where in some pure and equal sky, 
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye. 

The modest virtues d well- 
Simplicity in Attic vest, 
And Innocence with candid breast, 

And clear undaunted eye ; 
And Hope, who points to distant years. 
Fair opening through this vale of tears 

A vista to the sky. 

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide 
The temperate joys in even tide. 

That rarely ebb or flow ; 
And Patience there, thy sister meek, 
Presents her mild unvarying cheek 

To meet the offered blow. 

Her influence taught the Phrygian sago 
A tyrant master's wanton rage 

With settled smiles to meet: 
Inured to toil and bitter bread, 
He bowed his meek submitted head, 

And kissed thy sainted feet. 



1820-1830.] BARBAULD. 189 

But thou, O Nymph retired and coy ! 
I'll what brown hamlet dost thou joy 

To tell thy tender tale ? 
The lowliest children of the ground, 
Moss-rose, and violet blossom round, 

And lily of the vale. 

say what soft propitious hour 

1 best may choose to hail thy power, 

And court thy gentle sway 1 
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, 
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse, 

And shed thy milder day ; 

When Eve, her dewy star beneath, 
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, 

And every storm is laid ; 
If such an hour was e'er thy choice, 
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice 

Low whispering through the shade. 



TO WISDOM. 

O Wisdom ! if thy soft control 
Can soothe the sickness of the soul, 
Can bid the warring passions cease, 
And breathe the calm of tender peace j 
Wisdom ! I bless thy gentle sway. 
And ever, ever will obey. 

But if thou com'st with frown austere, 

To nurse the brood of Care and Fear; 

To bid our sweetest passions die. 

And leave us in their room a sigh; 

O, if thine aspect stern have power 

To wither each poor transient flower 

That cheers this pilgrimage of woe, 

And dry the springs whence hope should flow 

Wisdom ! thine empire I disclaim. 

Thou empty boast of pompous name ! 

In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell, 

But never haunt my cheerful cell. 

Hail to Pleasure's frolic train ! 

Hail to Fancy's golden reign! 

Festive Mirth, and Laughter wild. 

Free and sportful as the child! 

Hope with eager, sparkling eyes. 

And easy faidi, and fond surprise ! 

Let these, in fairy colors drest. 

For ever share my careless breast : 

Then, though wise I may not be. 

The wise themselves shall envy me. 

17* 



190 BARBAULD. [GEORGE IV. 



TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.* 

Cease, Wilberforce, to urge thy generous aim ! 

Thy Country knows the sin, and stands the shame ! 

The Preacher, Poet, Senator in vain 

Has rattled in her sight the Negro's chain ; 

In vain, to thy white standard gathering round, 

Wit, "Worth, and Parts and Eloquence are found : 

In vain, to push to birth thy great design, 

Contending chiefs, and hostile virtues join ; 

All, from conflicting ranks, of power possest 

To rouse, to melt, or to inform the breast. 

Where seasoned tools of Avarice prevail, 

A Nation's eloquence, combined, must fail : 

Each flimsy sophistry by turns they try ; 

The plausive argument, the daring lie, 

The artful gloss that moral sense confounds, 

The acknowledged thirst of gain that honor wounds: 

Bane of ingenuous minds! the unfeeling sneer, 

Which sudden turns to stone the falling tear: 

They search assiduous, with inverted skill. 

For forms of wrong, and precedents of ill; 

With impious mockery wrest the sacred page, 

And glean up crimes from each remoter age : 

Wrung Nature's tortures, shuddering, while you tell, 

From scoffing fiends bursts forth the laugh of hell ; 

In Britain's senate. Misery's pangs give birth 

To jests unseemly, and to horrid mirth 

Forbear ! thy virtues but provoke our doom. 
And swell the account of vengeance yet to come ; 
For, not unmarked in Heaven's impartial plan. 
Shall man, proud worm, contemn his fellow-man ! 
For you, whose tempered ardor long has borne 
Untired the labor, and unmoved the scorn; 
In Virtue's /as/i be inscribed your fame, 
And uttered yours with Howard's honored name ; 
Friends of the friendless — Hail, ye generous band ! 
Whose efforts yet arrest Heaven's lifted hand, 
Around whose steady brows, in union bright, 
The civic wreath and Christian's palm unite: 
Your merit stands, no greater and no less, 
Without, or with the varnish of success: 
But seek no more to break a nation's fall. 
For ye have saved yourselves — and that is all. 
Succeeding times your struggles, and their fate, 
With mingled shame and triumph shall relate ; 
While faithful History, in her various page, 
Marking the features of this motley age, 

On the Kejection of the Bill for Abolishing the Slave Trade, 1791. 



1820-1880.] BARBAULD. 191 

To shed a glory, and to fix a stain, 

Tells how you strove, and that you strove in vain. 



YE ARE THE SALT OP THE EARTH. 

Salt of the earth, ye virtuous few, 

Who season human-kind ; 
Light of the world, whose cheering ray 

Illumes the realms of mind : 

Where Misery spreads her deepest shade, 

Your strong compassion glows : 
From your blest lips the balm distils, 

That softens mortal woes. 

By dying beds, in prison glooms, 

Your frequent steps are found ; 
Angels of love ! you hover near. 

To bind the stranger's wound. 

You wash with tears the bloody page 

Which human crimes deform : 
When vengeance threats, your prayers ascend. 

And break the gathering storm. 

As down the summer stream of vice 

The thoughtless many glide ; 
Upward you steer your steady bark, 

And stem the rushing tide. 

Where guilt her foul contagion breathes, 

And golden spoils allure; 
Unspotted still your garments shine — 

Your hands are ever pure. 

Whene'er you touch the poet's lyre, 

A loftier strain is heard ; 
Each ardent thought is yours alone. 

And every burning word. 

Yours is the large expansive thought. 

The high heroic deed; 
Exile and chains to you are dear — 

To you 'tis sweet to bleed. 

You lift on high the warning voice. 

When public ills prevail ; 
Yours is the writing on the wall 

That turns the tyrant pale. 

And yours is all through History's rolls 

The kindling bosom feels; 
And at your tomb, with throbbing heart. 

The fond enthusiast kneels. 



192 HEBER. [GEORGE IV. 

In every faith, through every clime, 

Your pilgrim steps we trace; 
And shrines are dressed, and temples rise, 

Each hallo v^red spot to grace ; 

And paeans loud, in every tongue, 

And choral hymns resound ; 
And lengthening honors h^nd your name 

To time's remotest bound. 

Proceed ! your race of glory run, 

Your virtuous toils endure ! 
You come, commissioned from on high, 

And your reward is sure. 



REGINALD HEBER, 1783—1826. 

Reginald HEBER,thesonof the Rev. Reginald Heber, was born at Malpas, 
in Cheshire, on the 21st of April, 1783. His youth was distinguished by a 
precocity of talent, docility of temper, a love of reading, and a veneration 
for religion. The eagerness, indeed, with which he read the Bible in his 
early years, and the accuracy with which he remembered it, were quite 
remarkable. After completing the usual course of elementary instiuction, 
he entered the University of Oxford in 1800. In the first year he gained 
the university prize for Latin verse, and in 1813 he wrote his poem of 
" Palestine," which was received with distinguished applause.^ His aca- 
demical career was brilliant from its commencement to its close. After 
taking his degree, and gaining the university prize for the best English 
prose essay, he set out, in 1805, on a continental tour. He returned the 
following year, and in 1807 "took orders," and was settled in Hodnet, in 
Shropshire, where for many years he discharged the duties of his large 
parish with the most exemplary assiduity. 

In 1809, he married, and in the same year published a series of hymns, 
"appropriate for Sundays and principal holidays of the year." In 1812, 
he commenced a " Dictionary of the Bible," and published a volume en- 
titled " Poems and Translations," the translations being chiefly from 
Pindar. After being advanced to two or three ecclesiastical preferments, 

• " Such a poem, composed at such an age, has indeed some, but not many, 
parallels in our language. Its copious diction, its perfect numbers, its images 
so well chosen, diversified so happily, and treated with so much discretion 
and good taste, and, above all, the ample knowledge of Scripture and of writ- 
ings illustrative of Scripture displayed in it — all tl*se things might have 
seemed to bespeak the work of a man who ' had been long choosing and begun 
late,' rather than of a stripling of nineteen." 

Quarterly Review, vol. xxxv. p. 451. 



1820-1830.] HEBER. 193 

in 1822 he received the offer of the bishopric of Calcutta, made vacant by 
the death of Dr. Middleton. This, after much hesitation, he accepted, 
and about the same time published a life of Jeremy Taylor, with a review 
of his writings. In 1823, he took his degree of D.D., and embarked for 
India, where he arrived in safety, "with a field before him that might 
challenge the labors of an apostle, and, we will venture to say, with as much 
of the spirit of an apostle in him as has rested on any man in these latter 
days." Indeed, he was peculiarly well qualified to fill this high and re- 
sponsible station, as well by his amiable and conciUatory temper as by his 
talents and zeal in the cause of Christianity. He entered with great zeal 
upon his duties, and had already made many long journeys through his 
extensive field of labor, when he was suddenly cut oflf by an apoplectic fit, 
which seized him while bathing, at Trichinopoly, on the 3d of April, 1826. 
Besides the works of Bishop Heber already mentioned, there was pub- 
lished, after his death, a " Narrative of a Journey through the Upper Pro- 
vinces of India, from Calcutta to Bombay," in two volumes. A number of 
his sermons, and charges to his diocese, were published during his life ; 
and from these we select the following, from a sermon delivered at the 
consecration of a church near Benares, upon 



NATIONS RESPONSIBLE TO GOD. 

If the Israelites were endowed, beyond the nations of mankind, 
with wise and righteous laws, with a fertile and almost impreg- 
nable territory, with a race of valiant and victorious kings, and a 
God who (while they kept his ways) was a wall of fire against 
their enemies round about them ; if the kings of the wilderness 
did them homage, and the lion-banner of David and Solomon was 
reflected at once from the Mediterranean and the Euphrates — it 
was that the way of the Lord might be made known by their 
means upon earth, and that the saving health of the Messiah might 
become conspicuous to all nations. 

My brethren, it has pleased the Almighty that the nation to 
which we ourselves belong is a great, a valiant, and an under- 
standing nation; it has pleased Him to give us an empire on 
which the sun never sets — a commerce by which the remotest 
nations of the earth are become our allies, our tributaries, I had 
almost said our neighbors; and by means (when regarded as 
human means, and distinct from his mysterious providence), so 
inadequate, as to excite our alarm as well as wonder — the sove- 
reignty over these wide and populous heathen lands. But is it 
for our sakes that he has given us these good gifts and wrought 
these great marvels in our favor ? Are we not rather set up on 
high in the earth, that we may show forth the light by which we 



194 HEBER. [GEORGE IV. 

are guided, and be the honored instruments of diffusing those 
blessings which we ourselves enjoy, through every land where our 
will is law, through every tribe where our wisdom is held in re- 
verence, and in every distant isle which our winged vessels visit? 
If we value, then (as who does not value ?) our renown among 
mankind; if we exult (as who can help exulting?) in the privi- 
leges which the providence of God has conferred on the British 
nation ; if we are thankful (and God forbid we should be other- 
wise) for the means of usefulness in our power ; and if we love 
(as who does not love ?) our native land, its greatness and pros- 
perity, let us see that we, each of us in our station, are promoting, 
to the best of our power, by example, by exertion, by liberality, 
by the practice of Christian justice and every virtue, the extension 
of God's truth among men, and the honor of that holy name 
whereby we are called. There have been realms before as fa- 
mous as our own, and (in relation to the then extent and riches 
of the civilized world), as powerful and as wealthy, of which the 
traveller sees nothing now but ruins in the midst of a wilderness, 
or where the mariner only finds a rock for fishers to spread their 
nets. Nineveh once reigned over the east ; but where is Nineveh 
now ? Tyre had once the commerce of the world ; but what is 
become of Tyre ? But if the repentance of Nineveh had been 
persevered in, her towers would have stood to this day. Had the 
daughter of Tyre brought her gifts to the Temple of God, she 
would have continued a queen forever. 



THE STREAM OF LIFE. 

Life bears us on like the stream of a mighty river. Our boat, 
at first, glides down the narrow channel, through the playful 
murmuring of the little brook and the winding of its grassy bor- 
der. The trees shed their blossoms over our young heads, the 
flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our young hands ; 
we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around 
us — but the stream hurries on, and still our hands are empty. 

Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper 
flood, amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are ani- 
mated by the moving picture of enjoyment and industry passing 
before us; we are excited by some short-lived disappointment. 
The stream bears us on, and our joys and our griefs are alike left 
behind us. We may be shipwrecked, but we cannot be delayed ; 
whether rough or smooth, the river hastens towards its home, till 



1820-1830.] HEBER. 195 

the roar of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of its waves 
is beneath our feet, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the 
floods are lifted up around us, and we take our leave of earth and 
its inhabitants, until of our further voyage there is no witness 
save the Infinite and Eternal. 

The poems of Bishop Heber, though not distinguished for any great 
vigor or originality, are certainly very chaste, elegant, and pleasing. Many 
of his hymns have been favorites in the Christian church among all de- 
nominations; for, while they possess all the simplicity and true Christian 
feeling which should characterize such compositions, they have more ele- 
vation and poetic fervor than is usually met with in our sacred lyrics. As 
has been justly said, " they breathe a fervent devotion in the most poetical 
language and short melodious verse." 



PALESTINE. 

Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, 

Mourn, widow'd queen ! forgotten Sion, mourn ! 

Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne. 

Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone ? 

While suns unbless'd their angry lustre fling, 

And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring? 

Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy view'd? 

Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued 1 

No martial myriads muster in thy gate, 

No suppliant nations in thy temple wait, 

No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among, 

Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song; 

But lawless Force, and meagre Want are there, 

And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear, 

While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid, 

Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy-shade. 



THE ISRAELITES DELIVERED EROM THEIR OPPRESSORS. 

Oh! welcome came the'morn, where Israel stood 
In trustless wonder by the avenging flood ! 
Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show 
The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below ! 
The mangled limbs of men — the broken car — 
A few sad relics of a nation's war; 
Alas, how few ! Then, soft as Elim's well, 
The precious tears of new-born freedom fell. 
And he, whose hardened heart alike had borne 
The house of bondage and the oppressor's scorn, 



196 HEBER. [GEORGE IV. 

The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, 

In faltering accents sobbed his gratitude, 

Till kindling into warmer zeal, around 

The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound ; 

And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest, 

The struggling spirit throbbed in Miriam's breast. 

She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky 

The dark transparence of her lucid eye. 

Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. 

" Where now," she sang, " the tall Egyptian spear? 

On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, where? 

Above their ranks the whelming waters spread. 

Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed !" 

And every pause between, as Miriam sang. 

From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang. 

And loud and far their stormy chorus spread — 

" Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed !" 

Palestine. 



THE RISE OF SALEM. 

Yet still destruction sweeps the lonely plain, 

And heroes lift the generous sword in vain. 

Still o'er her sky the clouds of anger roll. 

And God's revenge hangs heavy on her soul. 

Yet shall she rise; — but not by war restored, 

Not built in murder; — planted by the sword. 

Yes, Salem, thou shalt rise : Thy Father's aid 

Shall heal the wound His chastening hand has made, 

Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway. 

And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords away. 

Then on your tops shall deathless verdure spring : 

Break forth, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, sing ! 

No more your thirsty rocks shall frown forlorn. 

The unbeliever's jest, the heathen's scorn : 

The sultry sands shall tenfold harvests yield, 

And a new Eden deck the thorny field. 

E'en now, perhaps, wide waving o'er the land, 

The mighty Angel lifts his golden wand ; 

Courts the bright vision of descending power. 

Tells every gate and measures every tower. 

And chides the tardy seals that yet detain 

Thy Lion, Judah, from his destined reign. 

And who is He? the vast, the awful form. 
Girt with the whirlwind, sandal'd with the storm ! 
A western cloud around his limbs is spread. 
His crown a rainbow, and a sun his head. 
To highest heav'n he lifts his kingly hand. 
And treads at once the ocean and the land ; 
And hark ! his voice amid the thunder's roar. 
His dreadful voice, that time shall be no more ! 



1820-1830.] HEEER. 197 

Lo ! . cherub hands the golden courts prepare, 
Lo ! thrones are set, and every saint is there ! 
Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway, 
The mountains worship and the isles obey ; 
Nor sun nor moon they need — nor day nor night; 
God is their temple, and the Lamb their light ; 
And shall not Israel's sons exulting come, 
Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home? 
On David's throne shall David's offspring reign, 
And the dry bones be warm'd with life again. 
Hark ! white-robed crowds their deep hosannas raise, 
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise ; 
Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song, 
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong : 
" Worthy the Lamb ! omnipotent to save. 
Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave !" 



MISSIONARY HYMN. 

From Greenland's icy mountains. 

From India's coral strand. 
Where Afric's sunny fountains 

Koll down their golden sand ; 
From many an ancient river, 

From many a palmy plain, 
They call us to deliver 

Their land from error's chain. 

What though the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; 
Though every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile : 
In vain with lavish kindness 

The gifts of God are strown — 
The heathen, in his blindness, 

Bows down to wood and stone. 

Shall we, whose souls are lighted 

With wisdom from on high. 
Shall we to man benighted 

The lamp of life deny? 
Salvation ! O Salvation ! 

The joyful sound proclaim. 
Till each remotest nation 

Has learnt Messiah's name. 

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story. 
And you, ye waters, roll. 

Till like a sea of glory. 

It spreads from pole to pole ; 

Till o'er our ransom'd nature 
The Lamb for sinners slain, 

18 



198 HEBER. [GEORGE IV. 

Redeemer, King, Creator, 
In bliss returns to reign. 



TO HIS WIFE. 

If tliou wert by my side, my love, 

How fast would evening fail 
In green Bengala's palmy grove, 

Listening the nightingale! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee. 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 

When, on our deck reclined. 
In careless ease my limbs I lay, 

And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide. 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from vny side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 

The lingering noon to cheer, 
But miss thy kind approving eye, 

Thy meek attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 

Beliolds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 

My course be onward still; 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates 

Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 



1820-1830.] HEBER. 199 



ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER. 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee, 
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; 

Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portals before thee, 

And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom ! 

Thou art gone to the grave ! we no longer behold thee, 
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; 

But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, 
And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died ! 

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking, 
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long ; 

But the mild rays of paradise beam'd on thy waking, 

And the sound which thou heard'st was the Seraphim's song ! 

Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee, 
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide ; 

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee. 
And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died ! 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 
Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! 

Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining, 
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall ! 

Angels adore him in slumber reclining. 
Maker and Monarch, and Saviour of all ! 

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, 
Odors of Edom, and oiF'rings divine 1 

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean. 
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine? 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation ; 

Vainly with gold would His favor secure ; 
Richer by far is the heart's adoration. 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! 



200 POLLOK. [GEORGE IV. 



ROBERT POLLOK, 1799—1827. 

In 1827, the world was startled by the appearance of a new epic — a re- 
ligious poem in blank verse, entitled, " The Course of Time," by Robert 
Pollok, a young clergyman of the Scottish Secession Church. Few works 
before ever became so rapidly and extensively popular. It was read with 
eagerness by all classes, and passed through numerous editions ; and, by 
many, it was pronounced the finest poem that had appeared in our language 
since the Paradise Lost. Some even went so far as to claim for the author 
a genius and a power equal to Milton. This, of course, was extravagant. 
But, after the first excitement passed away, the literary world settled down 
in the well-matured conviction that the "Course of Time" is a poem of 
extraordinary power, and destined to live as long as the English language 
endures. 

Robert Pollok, the son of a farmer in Renfrewshire,' Scotland, was born 
in the year 1799. Whilst a mere boy he was remarkably thoughtful, and 
from a very early age displayed a taste for the beauties of nature, and a 
capacity for enjoying them by no means common. After going through 
the ordinary preparatory studies, he was sent to the University of Glasgow, 
where he studied theology for five years, under Dr. Dick. He had hardly 
entered upon his professional duties, when his health, enfeebled by exces- 
sive application to his studies, and in the composition of his great poem, 
became so much impaired that his friends urged him to try the climate of 
southern Europe. He, therefore, shortly after the publication of his poem, 
in 1827, in company with his sister, departed on his journey. But he was 
enabled to get no farther than to the south of England. His disease (con- 
sumption) increased to such a degree as to preclude all hope of recovery, 
and his death took place at Shirley Common, Southampton, on the 17th of 
September, 1827. 

Few youthful poets have excited so much interest as Robert Pollok. 
Like Henry Kirke White, he died young. Like him, his muse was the 
handmaid of virtue and religion, to both of which his studies were conse- 
crated. On him, as on White, consumption "laid her hand," and he as 
constantly " nursed the pinion that impelled the steel." Each fell a 
martyr to too severe appUcation to study ; and each will be remem- 
bered and loved as long as genius united to virtue and piety has friends 
among men. 

" The Course of Time" is in ten books, and the object of the poet is " to 
describe the spiritual life and destiny of man; and he varies his religious 
speculations with episodical pictures and narratives, to illustrate the effects 
of virtue and vice." Though as a whole, the poem is unequal, it abounds 
with passages that will rank with the very best poetry in our language ; 
and though many may not agree with some of the author's religious specu- 

' On the western coast of Scotland, due west from Edinburgh. 



1820-1830.] POLLOK. 201 

lations, all will unite in praise and gratitude for what he did, and in sincere 
regret that his life was not spared longer to do more, as he doubtless would 
have done, to make mankind wiser and better, by pouring forth further 
treasures from a mind filled with the purest and noblest sentiments. 



HAPPINESS. 

Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets 
Or shady groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems 
In vain to ask ; her nature makes it vain; 
Though poets much, and hermits, talked and sung 
Of brooks and crystal founts, and weeping dews, 
And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales. 
And with the nymph made assignations there, 
And wooed her with the love-sick oaten reed ; 
And sages too, although less positive, 
Advised their sons to court her in the shade. 

Delirious babble all ! Was happiness, 
Was self-approving, God-approving joy, 
In drops of dew, however pure ? in gales, 
However sweet? in wells, however clear? 
Or groves, however thick with verdant shade ? 

True, these were of themselves exceeding fair ; 
How fair at morn and even ! worthy the walk 
Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within 
Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss ; 
But M^ere the occasion, not the cause of joy. 
They waked the native fountains of the soul 
Which slept before, and stirred the holy tides 
Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink 
From its own treasures draughts of perfect sv/eet. 

The Christian faith, which better knew the heart 
Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus 
Declared: Who finds it, let him find it there; 
Who finds it not, forever let him seek 
In vain ; 'tis God's most holy, changeless will. 

True Happiness had no localities. 
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 
Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went, 
And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. 
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart 
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew 
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang 
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury 
Kepeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; 
Where'er an evil passion was subdued. 
Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er 
A sin was heartily abjured and left ; 
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish ; 

18* 



202 POLLOK. [GEORGE IV. 

There was a high and holy place, a spot 

Of sacred light, a most religious fane. 

Where Hap])iness, descending, sat and smiled. 



HAPPINESS OP CHILDHOOD. 

What tongue ! — no tongue shall tell what bliss o'erflowed 

The mother's tender heart, while round her hung 

The offspring of her love, and lisped her name 

As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven, 

That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem 

Than every ornament of costliest hue ! 

And who hath not been ravished, as she passed 

With all her playful band of little ones, 

Like Luna with her daughters of the sky, 

Walking in matron majesty and grace? 

All who had hearts here pleasure found : and oft 

Have I, when tired with heavy task, for tasks 

Were heavy in the world below, relaxed 

My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports. 

And led them by their little hands a-field. 

And watched them run and crop the tempting flower— 

Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed 

With smiling face, that waited for a look 

Of praise — and answered curious questions, put 

In much simplicity, but ill to solve ; 

And heard their observations strange and new; 

And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon 

Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love. 

Gay, guileless, sportive, lovely little things! 
Playing around the den of sorrow, clad 
In smiles, believing in their fairy hopes. 
And thinking man and woman true ! all joy, 
Happy all day, and happy all the night! 



THE MISER. 

But there was one in folly further gone ; 

With eye awry, incurable, and wild, 

The laughing-stock of devils and of men, 

And by his guardian-angel quite given up — 

The Miser, who with dust inanimate 

Held wedded intercourse. Ill-guided wretch! 

Thou might'st have seen him at the midnight hour, 

When good men slept, and in light-winged dreams 

Ascended up to God — in wasteful hall, 

With vigilance and fasting worn to skin 



1820-1830.] POLLOK. 203 

And bone, and wrapped in most debasing rags — 

Thou might'st have seen him bending o'er his heaps, 

And holding strange communion with his gold ; 

And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear 

The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed, 

And in his old, decrepit, withered hand, 

That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth 

To make it sure. Of all God made upright, 

And in their nostrils breathed a living soul, 

Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most debased. 

Of all that sold Eternity for Time, 

None bargained on so easy terms with death. 

Illustrious fool ! Nay, most inhuman wretch ! 

He sat among his bags, and, with a look 

Which Hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor 

Away unalmsed ; and 'midst abundance died — 

Sorest of evils — died of utter want! 



FRIENDSHIP. 

Not unremembered is the hour when friends 

Met. Friends, but few on earth, and therefore dear ; 

Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain ; 

Yet always sought, so native to the heart. 

So much desired and coveted by all. 

Nor wonder those — thou wonderest not, nor need'st. 

Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair. 

Than face of faithful friend, fairest when seen 

In darkest day ; and many sounds were sweet, 

Most ravishing and pleasant to the ear; 

But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend, 

Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm. 

Some I remember, and will ne'er forget; 

My early friends, friends of my evil day; 

Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too; 

Friends given by God in mercy and in love ; 

My counsellors, my comforters, and guides; 

My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy ; 

Companions of my young desires; in doubt 

My oracles, my wings in high pursuit. 

O, I remember, and will ne'er forget 

Our meeting spots, our chosen sacred hours. 

Our burning words that uttered all the soul. 

Our faces beaming with unearthly love ; 

Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope 

Exulting, heart embracing heart entire. 

As birds of social feather helping each 

His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies, 

And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and earth, 

With all her tardy leaden-footed cares. 

And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven ! 



204 POLLOK. [GEORGE IV. 

These I remember, these selectest men, 
And would their names record ; but what avails 
My mention of their names 1 Before the throne 
They stand illustrious "mong the loudest harps. 
And will receive thee glad, my friend and theirs — 
For all are friends in heaven, all faithful friends ; 
And many friendships in the days of time 
Begun, are lasting here, and growing still ; 
So grows ours evermore, both theirs and mine. 



COMMUNINGS WITH NATURE. 

Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me 

The solitude of vast extent, untouched 

By hand of art, where nature sowed herself, 

And reaped her crops ; whose garments were the clouds ; 

Whose minstrel brooks ; whose lamps the moon and stars 5 

Whose organ-choir the voice of many waters ; 

Whose banquets morning dews ; whose heroes storms ; 

Whose warriors mighty winds; whose lovers flowers;^ 

Whose orators the thunderbolts of God; 

Whose palaces the everlasting hills ; 

Whose ceiling heaven's unfathomable blue; 

And from whose rocky turrets battled high 

Prospect immense spread out on all sides round, 

Lost now beneath the welkin and the main. 

Now walled with hills that slept above the storm. 

Most fit was such a place for musing men. 

Happiest sometimes when mu'^ing without aim. 

It was, indeed, a wondrous sort of bliss 

The lonely bard enjoyed when forth he walked, 

Unpurposed; stood, and knew not why; sat down, 

And knew not where; arose, and knew not when; 

Had eyes, and saw not ; ears, and nothing heard ; 

And sought — sought neither heaven nor earth — sought nought. 

Nor meant to think ; but ran meantime through vast 

Of visionary things, fairer than aught 

That was ; and saw the distant tops of thoughts, 

Which men of common stature never saw, 

Greater than aught that largest worlds could hold, 

Or give idea of to those who read. 

He entered into Nature's holy place, 

Her inner chamber, and beheld her face 

Unveiled ; and heard unutterable things, 

And incommunicable visions saw ; 

Things then unutterable, and visions then 

Of incommunicable glory bright ; 

But by the lips of after-ages formed 

To words, or by their pencil pictured forth ; 

Who, entering farther in, beheld again, 

And heard unspeakable and marvellous things, 



1820-1830.] POLLOK. 205 



Which other ages in their turn revealed, 
And left to others greater wonders still. 



nature's teachings. 

The Seasons came and went, and went and came, 

To teach men gratitude ; and as they pass'd, 

Ga^e warning of the lapse of time, that else 

Had stolen unheeded by. The gentle flowers 

Retired, and, stooping o'er the wilderness, 

Talk'd of humility, and peace, and love. 

The dews came down unseen at evening-tide, 

And silently their bounties shed, to teach 

Mankind unostentatious charity. 

With arm in arm the forest rose on high. 

And lesson gave of brotherly regard. 

And, on the rugged mountain-brow exposed, 

Bearing the blast alone, the ancient oak 

Stood, lifting high his mighty arm, and still 

To courage in distress exhorted loud. 

The flocks, the herds, the birds, the streams, the breeze, 

Attun'd the heart to melody and love. 

Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that wept 

Essential love; and, from her glorious bow, 

Bending to kiss the earth in token of peace, 

With her own lips, her gracious lips, which God 

Of sweetest accent made, she whisper'd still, 

She whisper'd to Revenge, Forgive, forgive ! 

The sun, rejoicing round the earth, announced 

Daily the wisdom, power, and love of God. 

The Moon awoke, and from her maiden face. 

Shedding her cloudy locks, look'd meekly forth, 

And with her virgin stars walk'd in the heavens, 

Walk'd nightly there, conversing, as she- walk'd. 

Of purity, and holiness, and God. 

In dreams and visions, sleep instructed much. 

Day utter'd speech to day, and night to night 

Taught knowledge. Silence had a tongue ; the grave. 

The darkness, and the lonely waste, had each 

A tongue, that ever said, Man ! think of God ! 

Think of thyself! think of eternity! 

Fear God, the thunders said; Fear God, the waves. 

Fear God, the lightning of the storm replied. 

Fear God, deep loudly answer'd back to deep. 



LOVE. 

Hail love, first love, thou word that sums all bliss ! 
The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness, 



206 POLLOK. [GEORGE IV. 

The silken down of happiness complete ! 

Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy ! 

She gathered and selected with her hand 

All finest relishes, all fairest sights, 

All rarest odors, all divinest sounds, 

All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul; 

And brought the holy mixture home, and filled 

The heart with all superlatives of bliss. 

But who would that expound, which words transcends, 

Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting scene 

Of early love, and thence infer its worth. * * 

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood. 
The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light, 
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand ; 
And all the winds slept soundly. Nature seemed 
In silent contemplation to adore 
Its Maker. Now and then the aged leaf 
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground ; 
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. 
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high, 
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought, 
Conversing with itself Vesper looked forth 
From out her western hermitage, and smiled; 
And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon 
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense, 
As if she saw some wonder working there. 

Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene. 
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill 
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass, 
A damsel kneeled to ofier up her prayer — 
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard. 
This ancient thorn had been the meeting place 
Of love, before his country's voice had called 
The ardent youth to honored office far 
Beyond the wave : and hither now repaired, 
Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye 
Seen only, while she sought this boon alone — • 
"Her lover's safety, and his quick return." 
In holy, humble attitude she 'kneeled. 
And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, pressed 
One hand, the other lifted up to heaven. 
Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn. 
As violet meek, excessive ardor streamed. 
Wafting away her earnest heart to God. • 

Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr sighs 
On morning's lily cheek, though soft and low, 
Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat. 
A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face ; 
It was a tear of faith and holy fear, 
Pure as the drops that hang at dawning-time 
On yonder willows by the stream of life. 
On her the moon looked steadfastly ; the stars 



1820-1830.] DYMOND. 207 

That circle nightly round the eternal throne 

Glanced down, well pleased; and everlasting Love 

Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere. 

O had her lover seen her thus alone, 

Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him! 

Nor did he not: for ofttimes Providence 

With unexpected joy the fervent prayer 

Of faith surprised. Returned from long delay. 

The sacred thorn, to memory dear, first sought 

The youth, and found it at the happy hour. 

Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray. 

Wrapped in devotion, pleading with her God, 

She saw him not, heard not his foot approach. 

All holy images seemed too impure 

To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled, 

Beseeching for his ward before the throne. 

Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the thought ! 

But sweeter still the kind remembrance came, 

That she was flesh and blood formed for himself, 

The plighted partner of his future life. 

And as they met, embraced, and sat embowered 

In woody chambers of the starsy night, 

Spirits of love about them ministered, 

And God, approving, blessed the holy joy ! 



JONATHAN DYMOND, 1796-1828. 

Jonathan DYMOND,Mhe celebrated author of the " Essays on Morality," 
was born in Exeter, in 1796. His father, who was a member of the Society 
of Friends, was a linen-draper of that city, and brought up his son to the 
same business. Of course, he did not receive what is called a " liberal 
education;" but he possessed that without which a liberal education is 
worse tha« useless ; for the sound moral and religious principles which 
were carefully inculcated by his parents at home laid the foundation of that 
high and stern standard of morality which has placed him at the very head 
of English moralists. On leaving school, he found employment in his 
father's business, in which he afterwards became a partner, and in which 
he continued until the close of his life. He early evinced a disposition for 
quiet reflection, and in his conversation, for which he had a great talent, 
he manifested just and enlightened views of the progress of mankind, and 
that freedom of thought which enabled him to go forth in search of truth, 

'■ There are very few materials for ^vriting a biography of Dymond, and I 
am indebted for this chiefly to an article in the "Non-Slaveholder," written 
by its editor, Samuel Rhoads, from materials collected by him from the family 
when he was in England. 



208 DYMOND. [GEORGE IV. 

to disregard the opinions of his contemporaries, and of those who had gone 
before him, and to bring his strong intellect and his very sensitive and en- 
lightened conscience, unfettered, to the investigation of the Divine Will in 
the government of the world. 

In 1822, he married Anna Wilkey, a Friend, of Plymouth, who survived 
him nearly twenty-one years ; their family consisted of a daughter and a 
son, the latter of whom died at the age of seven years. In 1823, he pub- 
lished his "Enquiry into the Accordancy of War whh the Principles of 
Christianity," a work composed in the momentary intervals of business, 
and in his early morning hours — time rescued from sleep by his habit 
of early rising. This work, from the energy and earnestness of its 
style, and from its high standard of Christian morals, immediately attracted 
very great attention, and soon ran through three editions. Of course, it 
met with censure from those who deem human butchery professionally 
right ; but it was the means of opening the eyes of many to the atrocities 
of war, and of raising up many supporters to the cause of peace. 

During the time occupied in publishing the "Enquiry," he was frequently 
engaged in laying the foundation of his other work — that on which his fame 
chiefly rests — his "Essays on the Principles of Morality." This, he 
hoped, would prove even more extensively useful than his first work, and 
he soon devoted himself fully to it — a work that was to exhibit the only 
true and authoritative standard of rectitude, and to estimate, by that stand- 
ard, the moral character of human actions. He was never of a strong con- 
stitution ; and, early in the spring of 1826, appeared the first symptoms of 
that disease which, in two years, was to send him to his grave. A fre- 
quent cough and great weakness of the throat gradually increased upon 
him, and he was soon compelled to give up conversation altogether, and 
to express his ideas by writing on a little slate which he carried in his 
pocket. This continued to be his only means of conversation until the 
close of his life. As recommended by his friends, he went to London 
to consult some eminent physicians there ; but all to no purpose. His dis- 
order — pulmonary consumption — continued to make rapid advances, and 
after trying two or three different situations in the country in hopes of 
benefit, he returned to his native place, where he remained still employed, 
as his small remaining strength would permit, in preparing for the publica- 
tion of his "Essays;" and he might be seen surrounded by*his papers 
until a few days before his death, which took place on the 6th of May, 
1828. Throughout his lingering illness, he evinced a perfect resignation 
to the will of God, and a full confidence in his promises, and manifested 
on his death-bed his deep conviction of that great truth with which he has 
concluded his "Essays" — that "the true and safe foundation of our hope 
is in the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."' 

*■ A well-merited tribute to his character appeared, some years ago, in " Tait's 
Magazine," in the following lines, entitled 

dymond's grave. 
" Standing by Exeter's Cathedral tower, 
My thoughts went back to that small grassy mound 



1820-1830.] DYMOND. 209 

If " that life i? long which answers life's great end," few men have lived 
to a greater age than Jonathan Dymond, though he died at the early- 
age of thirty- two — for few men have done more good. 

His " Essays on the Principles of Morality" is undoubtedly the best 
book upon the subject ; and it is worthy of remark that, though learned 
scholars, profound civilians, celebrated divines, and famous moralists, had 
all before written upon the same subject, a humble individual of the 
Society of Friends, bred in no academic halls, should have eclipsed them 
all. The plain, simple reason is that he takes the Word of God as his 
infallible standard of rectitude by which to weigh all actions, and that with 
a clear head and an honest conscience, he follows his principles wherever 
they lead, knowing that they can never lead wrong. It is amusing as well 
as instructive to see with what ease he overthrows all the previous stand- 
ards of rectitude which various men had set up — as utility, expediency, &c. 
— and establishes the great central truth, that the Will of God is the only 
infallible standard by which to judge the right or wrong of actions. 



LOVE THE TEST OF ONE'S CHRISTIAN PRINCIPLES. 

Love is made the test of the validity of our claims to the Chris- 
tian character — " By this shall all men know that ye are my 
disciples.'' Again — " Love one another. He that loveth ano- 
ther hath fulfilled the law. For this, Thou shalt not commit 
adultery, Thou shalt not kill, Thou shalt not bear false witness, 
Thou shalt not covet ; and if there be any other commandment, it 
is briefly comprehended in this saying, namely, Thou shalt love 
thy neighbor as thyself. Love worketh no ill to his neighbor : 
therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law/' It is not, therefore, 
surprising that, after an enumeration in another place of various 
duties, the same dignified apostle says, ^' Above all these thingSj 
put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness.^^ The inculca- 
tion of this benevolence is as frequent in the Christian Scriptures 
as its practical utility is great. He who will look through the 
volume will find that no topic is so frequently introduced, no 

Which I had lately left ; — the grassy mound, 

Where Dymond sleeps ; — and felt how small the power 

Of time-worn walls to waken thoughts profound, 

Compared with that green spot of sacred ground. 

Dymond ! death-stricken in thy manhood's flower — 

Thy brows with deathless amaranths are crowned : 

Thou saw'st the world, from thy sequester'd bower, 

In old hereditary errors bound ; 

And such a truthful trumpet didst thou sound, 

As shall ring in man's ears till Time devour 

The vestiges of nations ; — yet thy name 

Finds but the tribute of slow-gathering fame." 

19 



210 DYMOiND. [GEORGE IV. 

obligation so emphatically enforced, no virtue to which the appro- 
bation of God is so specially promised. It is the theme of all 
the ^' apostolic exhortations, that with which their morality begins 
and ends, from which all their details and enumerations set out, 
and into which they return." ^' He that dwelleth in love dwell- 
eth in God, and God in him." More emphatical language cannot 
be employed. It exalts to the utmost the character of the virtue, 
and, in eifect, promises its possessor the utmost favor and felicity. 
If, then, of faith, hope, and love, love be the greatest — if it be 
by the test of love that our pretensions to Christianity are to be 
tried — if all the relative duties of morality are embraced in one 
word, and that word is love — it is obviously needful that, in a 
book like this, the requisitions of benevolence should be habitually 
regarded in the prosecution of its inquiries. And, accordingly, 
the reader will sometimes be invited to sacrifice inferior considera- 
tions to these requisitions, and to give to the law of love that 
paramount station in which it has been placed by the authority 
of God. 



HUMAN, SUBORDINATE TO DIVINE LAW. 

The authority of civil government is a subordinate authority. 
If from any cause the magistrate enjoins that which is prohibited 
by the moral law, the duty of obedience is withdrawn. " All 
human authority ceases at the point where obedience becomes 
criminal." The reason is simple : that when the magistrate en- 
joins what is criminal, he has exceeded his power; '' the minister 
of God" has gone beyond his commission. There is, in our day, 
no such thing as a moral 'plenipotentiary. 

Upon these principles the first teachers of Christianity acted 
when the rulers " called them, and commanded them not to 
speak at all nor teach in the name of Jesus." " Whether," they 
replied, ''it be right in the sight of God to hearken unto you more 
than unto God, judge ye." They accordingly " entered into the 
temple early in the morning, and taught ;" and when, subse- 
quently, they were again brought before the council and interro- 
gated, they replied, " We ought to obey God rather than men ;" 
and notwithstanding the renewed command of the council, " daily 
in the temple and in every house, they ceased not to teach and 
preach Jesus Christ." Nor let any one suppose that there is 
anything religious in the motives of the apostles which involved 
a peculiar obligation upon them to refuse obedience ; the obliga- 
tion to conform to religious duty and to moral duty is one. 



1820-1830.] DYMOND. 211 



To disobey the civil magistrate is, however, not a light thing. 
When the Christian conceives that the requisitions of government 
and of a higher law are conflicting, it is needful that he exercise 
a strict scrutiny into the principles of his conduct. But if, upon 
such scrutiny, the contrariety of requisitions appear real, no room 
is left for doubt respecting his duty, or for hesitation in perform- 
ing it. With the consideration of consequences he has then no 
concern : whatever they may be, his path is plain before him. 



GREAT WEALTH NOT DESIRABLE. 

It was an observation of Voltaire's, that the English people 
were like their butts of beer, froth at top, dregs at bottom, in the 
middle excellent. The most rational, the wisest, the best portion 
of mankind belong to that class who possess '^ neither poverty nor 
riches.'' Let the reader look around him. Let him observe who 
are the persons that contribute most to the moral and physical 
amelioration of mankind ; who they are that practically and per- 
sonally support our unnumbered institutions of benevolence ; who 
they are that exhibit the worthiest examples of intellectual exer- 
tion; who they are to whom he would himself apply if he needed 
to avail himself of a manly and discriminating judgment. That 
they are the poor is not to be expected : we appeal to himself 
whether they are the rich. Who then would make his son a rich 
man ? Who would remove his child out of that station in society 
which is thus peculiarly favorable to intellectual and moral excel- 
lence ? 

If a man knows that wealth will in all probability be injurious 
to himself and to his children, injurious too in the most important 
points, the religious and moral character, it is manifestly a point 
of the soundest wisdom and the truest kindness to decline to 
accumulate it. Upon this subject, it is admirable to observe with 
what exactness the precepts of Christianity are adapted to that 
conduct which the experience of Ijfe recommends. "The care of 
this world and the deceitfulness of riches choke the word :" — 
" Choked with cares, and riches, and pleasures of this life, and 
bring no fruit to perfection :" — " How hardly shall they that 
have riches enter into the kingdom of God !" — " They that will 
be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish 
and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition." 
Not that riches necessarily lead to these consequences, but that 
such is their tendency ; a tendency so uniform and powerful that 



212 DYMOND. [GEORGE IV. 

it is to be feared these are their very frequent results. Now this 
language of the Christian Scriptures does not contain merely 
statements of fact — it imposes duties ; and whatever may be the 
precise mode of regarding those duties, one point is perfectly 
clear — that he who sets no other limit to his possessions or accu- 
mulations than inability or indisposition to obtain more, does not 
conform to the will of God. Assuredly, if any specified thing is 
declared by Christianity to be highly likely to obstruct our ad- 
vancement in goodness, and to endanger our final felicity, against 
that thing, whatever it be, it is imperative upon us to guard with 
wakeful solicitude. 

And, therefore, without affirming that no circumstance can 
justify a great accumulation of property, it may safely be con- 
cluded that far the greater number of those who do accumulate it 
do wrong ; nor do I see any reason to be deterred from ranking 
the distribution of a portion of great wealth, or a refusal to accu- 
mulate it, among the imperative duties which are imposed by the 
moral law. In truth, a man may almost discover whether such 
conduct is obligatory by referring to the motives which induce 
him to acquire great property or to retain it. The motives are 
generally impure; the desire of splendor, or the ambition of 
eminence, or the love of personal indulgence. Are these motives 
fit to be brought into competition with the probable welfare, the 
virtue, the usefulness, and the happiness of his family and him- 
self? Yet such is the competition, and to such unworthy objects, 
duty, and reason, and afiection are sacrificed. 



DUELLING. 

If two boys who disagreed about a game of marbles or a penny 
tart should therefore walk out by the river side, quietly take off 
their clothes, and when they had got into the water, each try to 
keep the other's head down until one of them was drowned, we 
should doubtless think that these two boys were mad. If, when 
the survivor returned to his schoolfellows, they patted him on the 
shoulder, told him he was a spirited fellow, and that if he had 
not tried the feat in the water, they would never have played at 
marbles or any other game with him again, we should doubtless 
think that these boys were infected with a most revolting and 
disgusting depravity and ferociousness. We should instantly 
exert ourselves to correct their principles, and should feel assured 
that nothing could ever induce us to tolerate, much less to en- 



1820-1880.] DYMOND. 213 

courage, such abandoned depravity. And yet we do both 
tolerate and encourage such depravity every day. Change the 
penny tart for some other trifle; instead of boys put men, and 
instead of a river a pistol, and we encourage it all. We virtually 
pat the survivor's shoulder, tell him he is a man of honor, and 
that if he had not shot at his acquaintance we would never have 
dined with him again. " Revolting and disgusting depravity" 
are at once excluded from our vocabulary. We substitute such 
phrases as " the course which a gentleman is obliged to pursue,'^ 
"it was necessary to his honor," "one could not have associated 
with him if he had not fought." We are the schoolboys grown 
up ; and by the absurdity, and more than absurdity, of our phrases 
and actions, shooting or drowning (it matters not which) becomes 
the practice of the national school. 

It is not a trifling question that a man puts to himself when he 
asks, What is the amount of 7)17/ contribution to this detestable 
practice ? It is by individual contributions to the public notions 
respecting it that the practice is kept up. Men do not fire at 
one another because they are fond of risking their own lives or 
other men's, but because public notions are such as they are. 
Nor do I think any deduction can be more manifestly just than 
that he who contributes to the misdirection of these notions is 
responsible for a share of the evil and the guilt. When some 
offence has given probability to a duel, every man acts immorally 
who evinces any disposition to coolness with either party until he 
has resolved to fight ; and if eventually one of them falls, he is a 
party to his destruction. Every word of unfriendliness, every 
look of indifi"erence, is positive guilt ; for it is such words and such 
looks that drive men to their pisfeolS. It is the same after a vic- 
tim has fallen. "I pity his family, but they have the consola- 
tion of knowing that he vindicated his honor," is equivalent to 
urging another and another to fight. Every heedless gossip who 
asks, "Have you heard of this affair of honor?" and every re- 
porter of news who relates it as a proper and necessary procedure, 
participates in the general crime. 

How happy would it be for our country and for the world, how 
truly glorious for himself, if the king* would act towards the duel- 
list as his mother acted towards women who had lost their reputa- 
tion. She rigidly excluded them from her presence. If the 
British monarch refused to allow the man who had fought a duel 
to approach him, it is probable that ere long duelling would be 

» King George IV. 
19* 



214 DYMOND. [GEORGE IV. 

abolished, not merely in this country, but in the Christian world.^ 
Nor will true Christian respect be violated by the addition that, 
in proportion to the power of doing good, is the responsibility for 
omitting it. 



THE POWER OF NON-RESISTANCE. 

The Americans thought that it was best for the general welfare 
that they should be independent ; but England persisted in im- 
posing a tax. Imagine, then, America to have acted upon 
Christian principles, and to have refused to pay it, but without 
those acts of exasperation and violence which they committed. 
England might have sent a fleet and an army. To what pur- 
pose ? Still no one paid the tax. The soldiery perhaps sometimes 
committed outrages, and they seized goods instead of the impost ; 
still the tax could not be collected except by a system of universal 
distraint. Does any man, who employs his reason, believe that 
England would have overcome such a people ? does he believe 
that any government or any army would have gone on destroying 
them ? especially does he believe this, if the Americans continu- 
ally reasoned coolly and honorably with the other party, and 
manifested, by the unequivocal language of conduct, that they 
were actuated by reason and by Christian rectitude ? No nation 
exists which would go on slaughtering such a people. It is not 
in human nature to do such things ; and I am persuaded not only 
that American independence would have been secured, but that 
very far fewer of the Americans would have been destroyed, that 
very much less of devastation and misery would have been occa- 
sioned, if they had acted upon these principles instead of upon 
the vulgar system of exasperation and violence. In a word, they 
would have attained the same advantage, with more virtue, and 
at less cost. With respect to those voluble reasoners who tell us 
of meanness of spirit, oi pusillanimoiis submission, of hose crouching 
before tyranny, and the like, it may be observed that they do not 
know what mental greatness is. Courage is not indicated most 
unequivocally by wearing swords, or by wielding them. Many 
who have courage enough to take up arms against a bad govern- 
ment have not courage enough to resist it by the unbending firm- 
ness of the mind, to maintain a tranquil fidelity to virtue in 

^ What, then, shall be said of those parties in 07ir land who nominate duel- 
lists as candidates for the highest offices, and of those professing Christians 
who vote for them? 



1820-1830.] DYMOND. 215 

opposition to power, or to endure with serenity the consequences 
which may follow. 

The Reformation prospered more by the resolute non-compli- 
ance of its supporters than if all of them had provided themselves 
with swords and pistols. The most severely persecuted body of 
Christians which this country has in later ages seen was a body 
who never raised the arm of resistance. They wore out that iron 
rod of oppression which the attrition of violence might have 
whetted into a weapon that would have cut them off from the earth; 
and they now reap the fair fruit of their principles in the enjoy- 
ment of privileges from which others are still debarred. 



SLAVERY. 

To him who examines slavery by the standard to which all 
questions of human duty should be referred, the task of deciding, 
we say, is short. Whether it is consistent with the Christian law 
for one man to keep another in bondage without his consent, and 
to compel him to labor for that other's advantage, admits of no 
more doubt than whether two and two make four. It were hu- 
miliating, then, to set about the proof that the slave system is 
incompatible with Christianity; because no man questions its 
incompatibility who knows what Christianity is, and what it 
requires. 

The distinctions which are made between the original robbery 
in Africa, and the purchase, the inheritance, or the "breeding'^ 
of slaves in the colonies, do not at all respect the Idnd of immo- 
rality that attaches to the whole system. They respect nothing 
but the degree. The man who wounds and robs another on the 
highway is a more atrocious offender than he who plunders a 
hen-roost; but he is not more tridy an offender, he is not more 
certainly a violator of the law. And so with the slave system. 
He who drags a wretched man from his family in Africa is a 
more flagitious transgressor than he who merely compels the 
African to labor for his own advantage ; but the transgression, 
the immorality, is as real and certain in one case as in the other. 
He who had no right to steal the African can have none to sell 
him. From him who is known to have no right to sell, another 
can have no right to buy or to possess. Sale, or gift, or legacy 
imparts no right to me, because the seller, or giver, or bequeather 
had none himself. The sufferer has just as valid a claim to 
liberty at my hands, as at the hands of the rujfian who first drag- 



216 DYMOND. [GEORGE IV. 

ged bim from his home. Every horn* of every day, the present 
possessor is guilty of injustice. Nor is the case altered with 
respect to those who are born on a man's estate. The parents 
were never the landholder's property, and therefore the child is 
not. Nay, if the parents had been rightfully slaves, it would not 
justify me in making slaves of their children. No man has a 
right to make a child a slave but himself. What are our sen- 
timents upon kindred subjects? What do we think of the justice 
of the Persian system, by which, when a state offender is put 
to death, his brothers and his children are killed or mutilated 
too ? Or, to come nearer to the point, as well as nearer home, 
what should we say of a law which enacted that of every criminal 
who was sentenced to labor for life, all the children should be 
sentenced so to labor also ? And yet, if there is any comparison 
of reasonableness, it seems to be in one respect in favor of the 
culprit. He is condemned to slavery for his crimes ; the African 
for another man's profit. 

That any human being, who has not forfeited his liberty by his 
crimes, has a right to be free, and that whosoever forcibly with- 
holds liberty from an innocent man, robs him of his right, and 
violates the moral law, are truths which no man would dispute or 
doubt, if custom had not obscured our perceptions, or if wicked- 
ness did not prompt us to close our eyes. 

Although it could be shown that the slave system is expedient, 
it would not affect the question whether it ought to be maintained; 
yet it is remarkable that it is shown to be impolitic as well as 
bad. We are not violating the moral law because it fills our 
pockets. We injure ourselves by our own transgressions. The 
slave system is a cos^/y iniquity, both to the nation and to individual 
men. It is matter of great satisfaction that this is known and 
proved ; and yet it is just what, antecedently to inquiry, we should 
have reason to expect. The truth furnishes one addition to the 
many evidences, that, even with respect to temporal affairs, that 
which is right is commonly politic ; and it ought, therefore, to 
furnish additional inducements to a fearless conformity of conduct, 
private and public, to the moral law. 

It is quite evident that our slave system will be abolished,* and 
that its supporters will hereafter be regarded with the same pub- 
lic feelings as he who was an advocate of the slave-trade is now. 
How is it that legislators or that public men are so indifferent to 
their fame? Who would now be willing that biography should 

» ThisM'^as, of course, written before the glorious act of Great Britain — the 
emancipation of the slaves in all her colonies in 1834. 



1820-1830.] HAZLiTT. 217 

record of him — This man defended the slave-trade? The time 
will come when the record — This man opposed the ahoUtion of 
slavery — will occasion a great deduction from the public estimate 
of worth of character. When both these atrocities are abolished, 
and, but for the page of history, forgotten, that page will make a 
wide difference between those who aided the abolition and those 
who obstructed it. The one will be ranked among the Howards 
that are departed, and the other among those who, in ignorance 
or in guilt, have employed their little day in inflicting misery 
upon mankind. 



WILLIAM HAZLITT, 1750—1830. 

William Hazlitt, a distinguished critic and miscellaneous writer, was 
the son of a Unitarian clergyman of Shropshire, and was born about the 
year 1750. After having received his academical education at the college 
in Hackney, in Middlesex, he commenced life as a painter, Snd by this 
means he gained an accurate knowledge of the principles of the arts. He, 
however, soon quit the pencil for the pen, and, instead of painting pictures, 
it became his delight to criticise them. After having made various contri- 
butions to the periodical journals, he published an essay on the " Principles 
of Human Action," a work in which he displayed considerable ingenuity 
and acuteness. This was followed, in 1808, by two volumes in octavo, 
under the title of " The Eloquence of the British Senate," a selection of 
the best parliamentary speeches since the time of Charles I., with notes. 

In 1810, appeared his "New and Improved English Grammar, for the 
use of Schools," in which the discoveries of Mr. Home Tooke, and other 
modern writers on the formation of language, are incorporated. In 1817, 
was published " The Round Table," a collection of Essays on Men, Lite- 
rature, and Manners, which had previously appeared in the periodical called 
" The Examiner." These were subsequently succeeded by his " Cha- 
racters of Shakspeare's Plays," a "View of the English Stage," and 
"Lectures on English Poetry," which he delivered at the Surrey Institu- 
tion. After this appeared, from time to time, his contributions to various 
periodicals, under the titles of "Table Talk," the " Spirit of the Age," 
the " Plain Speaker," and the " Literature of the Elizabethan Age." His 
largest and most elaborate work is his " Life of Napoleon," in four volumes, 
which appeared in 1828, a production which has raised him to a very high 
rank among the philosophers and historians of the present age. Mr. Haz- 
litt also contributed many articles to the "Edinburgh Review," some of 
which possess extraordinary merit. He continued to write and publish till 
the year of his death, which took place on the 18th of September, 1830. 



218 HAZLITT. [GEORGE IV. 

The writings of Mr. Hazlitt display much originality and genius, united 
with great critical acuteness and brilliancy of fancy. In the fine arts, the 
drama, and dramatic literature, he was considered one of the al)lest critics 
of the day. His essays are full of wisdom, and it is almost impossible to 
rise from a perusal of them without having gained some original and strik- 
ing ideas, and most valuable thoughts. His " Characters of Shakspeare's 
Plays," and his "Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Eliza- 
beth," are among the most interesting and instructive books in English 
literature. His admiration for the writers of that period was intense, and he 
descants upon their beauties with the most eloquent and joyous enthusiasm. 
An able and discriminating writer' thus speaks of him : " His mind resem- 
bles the 'rich strande' which Spenser has so nobly described, and to which 
he has himself likened the age of Elizabeth, where treasures of every de- 
scription lie, without order, in inexhaustible profusion. Noble masses of 
exquisite marble are there, which might be fashioned to support a glorious 
temple; and gems of peerless lustre, which would adorn the holiest shrine. 
He has no lack of the deepest feeling, the profoundest sentiments of human- 
ity, or the loftiest aspirations after ideal good. But there are no great leading 
principles of taste to give singleness to his aims, nor any central points in 
his mind, around which his feelings may revolve, and his imaginations 
cluster." Allowing this to be true, there yet remains enough to constitute 
him one of the most tasteful, discriminating, and genial critics in the English 
language. 3 * 



THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 

The age of Elizabeth was distinguished beyond, perhaps, any 
other in our history, by a number of great men, famous in dif- 
ferent ways, and whose names have come down to us with un- 
blemished honors — statesmen, warriors, divines, scholars, poets, 
and philosophers : Raleigh, Drake, Coke, Hooker, and higher and 
more sounding still, and still more frequent in our mouths, Shak- 
speare, Spenser, Sydney, Bacon, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher — 
men whom fame has eternized in her long and lasting scroll, and 
who, by their words and acts, were benefactors of their country, 
and ornaments of human nature. Their attainments of different 
kinds bore the same general stamp, and it was sterling : what they 
did had the mark of their age and country upon it. Perhaps the 
genius of Great Britain (if I may so speak without offence or flat- 
tery) never shone out fuller or brighter, or looked more like itself, 
than at this period. * * * * 

* "Edinburgh Review," vol. xxxiv. p. 440. 

2 Read " Literary Remains of Mr. Hazlitl," &c., by E. L. Bulwer, 2 vols. : 
also articles upon his various works in the " Edinburgh Review," vol. xxviii. 
p. 72, and vol. Ixiv. p. 395; and in the "London Quarterly," vol. xvii. p. 174, 
vol. xix. p. 424, and vol. xxvi. p. 103. 



1820-1830.] iiAZLiTT. 219 

The first cause I shall mention, as contributing to this general 
eifect, was the Reformation, which had just then taken place. 
This event gave a mighty impulse and increased activity to thought 
and inquiry, and agitated the inert mass of accumulated prejudices 
throughout Europe. The eifect of the concussion was general^ 
but the shock was greatest in this country. It toppled down the 
full-grown intolerable abuses of centuries at a blow; heaved the 
ground from under the feet of bigoted faith and slavish obedience; 
and the roar and dashing of opinions, loosened from their accus- 
tomed hold, might be heard like the noise of an angry sea, and 
has never yet subsided. G-ermany first broke the spell of misbe- 
gotten fear, and gave the watchword; but England joined the 
shout, and echoed it back, with her island voice, from her thousand 
cliffs and craggy shores, in a longer and a louder strain. With that 
cry, the genius of Great Britain rose, and threw down the gauntlet 
to the nations. There was a mighty fermentation : the waters were 
out; public opinion was in a state of projection. Liberty was held 
out to all to think and speak the truth. Men's brains were busy; 
their spirits stirring; their hearts full; and their hands not idle. 
Their eyes were opened to expect the greatest things, and their 
ears burned with curiosity and zeal to know the truth, that the 
truth might make them free. The death-blow which had been 
struck at scarlet vice and bloated hypocrisy, loosened their tongues, 
and made the talismans and love-tokens of Popish superstition, with 
which she had beguiled her folloAvers and committed abominations 
with the people, fall harmless from their necks. 

The translation of the Bible was the chief engine in the great 
work. It threw open, by a secret spring, the rich treasures of 
religion and morality, which had been there locked up as in a 
shrine. It revealed the visions of the prophets, and conveyed the 
lessons of inspired teachers to the meanest of the people. It gave 
them a common interest in a common cause. Their hearts burned 
within them as they read. It gave a mind to the people, by giving 
them common subjects of thought and feeling. It cemented their 
union of character and sentiment; it created endless diversity and 
collision of opinion. They found objects to employ their faculties, 
and a motive in the magnitude of the consequences attached to 
them, to exert the utmost eagerness in the pursuit of truth, and 
the most daring intrepidity in maintaining it. Beligious contro- 
versy sharpens the understanding by the subtlety and remoteness 
of the topics it discusses, and embraces the will by their infinite 
importance. We perceive in the history of this period a nervous 
masculine intellect. No levity, no feebleness, no indifference; or, 
if there were, it is a relaxation from the intense activity which 



220 HAZLITT. [GEORGE IV. 

gives a tone to its general character. But there is a gravity ap- 
proachiug to piety; a seriousness of impression, a conscientious 
severity of argument, an habitual fervor and enthusiasm in their 
method of handling almost every subject. The debates of the 
schoolmen were sharp and subtle enough; but they wanted interest 
and grandeur, and were besides confined to a few : they did not 
affect the general mass of the community. But the Bible was 
thrown open to all ranks and conditions "to run and read," with 
its wonderful table of contents from Genesis to the Revela- 
tions. Every village in England would present the scene so well 
described in Burns' "Cotter's Saturday Night.'^ I cannot think 
that all this variety and weight of knowledge could be thrown in 
all at once upon the minds of the people and not make some im- 
pression upon it, the traces of which might be discerned in the 
manners and literature of the age. For, to leave more disputable 
points, and take only the historical parts of the Old Testament, 
or the moral sentiments of the New, there is nothing like them 
in the power of exciting awe and admiration, or of riveting sym- 
pathy. We see what Milton has made of the account of the 
Creation, from the manner in which he has treated it, imbued and 
impregnated with the spirit of the time of which we speak. Or 
what is there equal (in that romantic interest and patriarchal sim- 
plicity which goes to the heart of a country, and rouses it, as it 
were, from its lair in wastes and wildnesses) to the story of Jo- 
seph and his Brethren, of Rachel and Laban, of Jacob's Dream, 
of Ruth and Boaz, the descriptions in the book of Job, the deliver- 
ance of the Jews out of Egypt, or the account of their captivity, 
and return from Babylon? There is, in all these parts of the 
Scripture, and numberless more of the same kind — to pass over 
the Orphic hymns of David, the prophetic denunciations of Isaiah, 
or the gorgeous visions of Ezekiel — an originality, a vastness of 
conception, a depth and tenderness of feeling, and a touching sim- 
plicity in the mode of narration, which he who does not feel need 
be made of no "penetrable stuff.'^ There is something in the cha- 
racter of Christ too (leaving religious faith quite out of the ques- 
tion) of more sweetness and majesty, and more likely to work a 
change in the mind of man, by the contemplation of its idea alone, 
than any to be found in history, whether actual or feigned. This 
character is that of a sublime humanity, such as was never seen 
on earth before, nor since. This shone manifestly both in his 
words and actions. We see it in his washing the Disciples' feet 
the night before his death, that unspeakable instance of humility 
and love, above all art, all meanness, and all pride; and in the 
leave he took of them on that occasion, "3Iy peace I give unto 



1820-1830.] HAZLITT. 221 

you, that peace which the world cannot give, give I unto you;" 
and in his last commandment, that " they should love one another." 
Who can read the account of his behavior on the cross, when, turn- 
ing to his mother, he said, ^^ Woman, behold thy son," and to the 
Disciple John, "Behold thy mother," and ''from that hour that 
Disciple took her to his own home," without having his heart 
smote within him ! We see it in his treatment of the woman 
taken in adultery, and in his ^cuse for the woman who poured 
precious ointment on his garment as an offering of devotion and 
love, which is here all in all. His religion was the religion of 
the heart. We see it in his discourse with the Disciples as they 
walked together towards Emmaus, when their hearts burned within 
them ; in his Sermon from the Mount, in his parable of the good 
Samaritan, and in that of the Prodigal Son — in every act and 
word of his life, a grace, a mildness, a dignity and love, a patience 
and wisdom worthy of the Son of Grod. His whole life and being 
were imbued, steeped, in this word, charity : it was the spring, 
the well-head, from which every thought and feeling gushed into 
act; and it was this that breathed a mild glory from his face in 
that last agony upon the cross, "when the meek Saviour bowed 
his head and died," praying for his enemies. He was the first 
true teacher of morality; for he alone conceived the idea of a pure 
humanity. He redeemed man from the worship of that idol, self, 
and instructed him by precept and example to love his neighbor 
as himself, to forgive our enemies, to do good to tho^e that curse 
us and despitefully use us. He taught the love of good for the 
sake of good, without regard to personal or sinister views, and 
made the affections of the heart the sole seat of morality, instead 
of the pride of the understanding or the sternness of the will. 
In answering the question, "who is our neighbor?" as one who 
stands in need of our assistance, and whose wounds we can bind 
up, he has done more to humanize the thoughts, and tame the 
unruly passions, than all who have tried to reform and benefit 
mankind. The very idea of abstract benevolence, of the desire 
to do good because another wants our services, and of regarding 
the human race as one family, the offspring of one common parent, 
is hardly to be found in any other code or system. It was "to 
the Jews a stumbling-block, and to the Greeks foolishness." The 
Greeks and Romans never thought of considering others, but as 
they were Greeks or Romans, as they were bound to them by cer- 
tain positive ties, or, on the other hand, as separated from them 
by fiercer antipathies. Their virtues were the virtues of political 
machines, their vices were the vices of demons, ready to inflict or 
to endure pain with obdurate and remorseless inflexibility of pur- 
20 



222 HAZLITT. [GEORGE IV. 

pose. But in the Christian religion ^^ we perceive a softness com- 
ing over the heart of a nation, and the iron scales that fence and 
harden it melt and drop oif.'^ It becomes malleable, capable of 
pity, of forgiveness, of relaxing in its claims, and remitting its 
power. We strike it and it does not hurt us : it is not steel or 
marble, but flesh and blood, clay tempered with tears, and "soft 
as sinews of the new-born babe.'' The Grospel was first preached 
to the poor, for it consulted their y^ants and interests, not its own 
pride and arrogance. It first promulgated the equality of man- 
kind in the community of duties and benefits. It denounced the 
iniquities of the chief-priests and Pharisees, and declared itself at 
variance with principalities and powers, for it sympathizes not 
with the oppressor, but the oppressed. It first abolished slavery, 
for it did not consider the power of the will to inflict injury, as 
clothing it with a right to do so. Its law is good, not ijower. It 
at the same time tended to wean the mind from the grossness of 
sense, and a particle of its divine flame was lent to brighten and 
purify the lamp of love ! 



MACBETH AND RICHARD THE THIRD COMPARED. 

The leading features in the character of Macbeth are striking 
enough, and they form what may be thought at first onl}^ a bold, 
rude, Grothic outline. By comparing it with other characters of 
the same author, we shall j)erceive the absolute truth and identity 
which is observed in the midst of the giddy whirl and rapid career 
of events. With powerful and masterly strokes, for instance, he 
has marked the different effects of ambition and cruelty, operating 
on different dispositions and in different circumstances, in his Mac- 
beth and Richard III. Both are tyrants, usurpers, murderers, 
both violent and ambitious, both courageous, cruel, treacherous. 
But Bichard is cruel from nature and constitution. Macbeth 
becomes so from accidental circumstances. Richard is from his 
birth deformed in body and mind, and naturally incapable of good. 
Macbeth is full of "the milk of human kindness,^' is frank, 
sociable, generous. He is urged to the commission of guilt by 
golden opportunity, by the instigations of his wife, and by pro- 
phetic warnings. "Fate and metaphysical aid" conspire against 
his virtue and his loyalty. Richard, on the contrary, needs no 
prompter, but wades through a series of crimes to the height of 
his ambition, from the ungovernable violence of his passions and 
a restless love of mischief. He is never gay but in the prospect, 



1820-1830.] HAZLTTT. 223 

or in the success of his villanies; Macbeth is full of horror at the 
thoughts of the murder of Duncan, which he is with difficulty 
prevailed on to commit, and of remorse after its perpetration, 
llichard has no mixture of common humanity in his composition, 
no regard to kindred or posterity ; he owns no fellowship with others, 
but is "himself alone." Macbeth endeavors to escape from reflec- 
tion on his crimes by repelling their consequences, and banishes 
remorse for the past by the meditation of future mischief. This 
is not the principle of Richard's cruelty, which resembles the cold 
malignity, the wanton malice of a fiend, rather than the frailty of 
human nature. Macbeth is goaded on to acts of violence and re- 
taliation by necessity; to Kichard, blood is a pastime. There are 
other essential differences. Richard is a man of the world, a vulgar, 
plotting, hardened villain, wholly regardless of everything but his 
own ends, and the means to accomplish them. Not so Macbeth. 
The superstitions of the age, the rude state of society, the local 
scenery and customs, all give a wildness and imaginary grandeur 
to his character. From the strangeness of the events that surround 
him, he is full of amazement and fear; and stands in doubt between 
the world of reality and the world of fancy. He sees sights not 
shown to mortal eye, and hears unearthly music. All is tumult 
and disorder within and without his mind ; his purposes recoil upon 
himself, are broken and disjointed; he is the double thrall of his 
passions and his evil destiny. He treads upon the brink of fate, 
and grows dizzy with his situation. Richard is not a character 
either of imagination or pathos, but of pure will. There is no 
conflict of opposite feelings in his breast. The apparitions which 
he sees only haunt him in his sleep ; nor does he live like Macbeth 
in a waking dream. There is nothing tight or compact in Mac- 
beth, no tenseness of fibre, nor pointed decision of manner. He 
has indeed considerable energy and manliness of soul; but then 
he is " subject to all the skyey influences." He is sure of nothing. 
All is left at issue. He runs a tilt with fortune, and is bafiled 
with preternatural riddles. The agitation of his mind resembles the 
rolling of the sea in a storm, or he is like a lion in the toils — fierce, 
impetuous, and ungovernable. Richard, in the busy turbulence 
of his projects, never loses his self-possession, and makes use of 
every circumstance that occurs as an instrument of his long-reach- 
ing designs. In his last extremity we can only regard him as a 
captured wild beast ; but we never entirely lose our concern for 
Macbeth, and he calls back all our sympathy by that fine close of 
thoughtful melancholy — 

" My way of life is fallen into the sear, 
The yellow leaf; and that which should accompany old age, 



224 HAZLITT. [GEORGE IV. 

As honor, troops of *iends, I must not look to have; 
But in their stead, curses not loud but deep. 
Mouth-honor, breath, which the poor heart 
Would fain deny, and dare not." 



LADY MACBETH. 

Macbeth's indecision of character is admirably set off by being 
brought in connection with that of Lady Macbeth, whose obdurate 
strength of will and masculine firmness give her the ascendency over 
her husband's faltering virtue. She at once seizes on the opportu- 
nity that offers for the accomplishment of their wishcd-for greatness, 
and never flinches from her object till all is over. The magnitude 
of her resolution almost covers the magnitude of her guilt. She 
is a great bad woman, whom we hate, but whom we fear more than 
we hate. She does not excite our loathing and abhorrence like 
Regan and Goneril. She is only wicked to gain a great end; and 
is perhaps more distinguished by her commanding presence of mind 
and inexorable self-will, which do not suffer her to be diverted from 
a bad purpose, when once formed, by weak and womanly regrets, 
than by the hardness of her heart or want of natural affections. 
Nor do the pains she is at to "screw his courage to the sticking- 
place,^' the reproach to him not to be "lost so poorly in himself," 
the assurance that "a little water clears them of this deed," show 
anything but her greater consistency in wickedness. Her strong- 
nerved ambition furnishes ribs of steel to " the sides of his intent;" 
and she is herself wound up to the execution of her baneful pro- 
ject with the same unshrinking fortitude in crime that in other 
circumstances she would probably have shown patience in suffering. 



HAMLET. 

Hamlet is a name : his speeches and sayings but the idle coinage 
of the poet's brain. What, then, are they not real ? They are as 
real as our own thoughts. Their reality is in the reader's mind. 
It is loe who are Hamlet. This play has a prophetic truth, which 
is above that of history. Whoever has become thoughtful and 
melancholy through his own mishaps or those of others; whoever 
has borne about with him the clouded brow of reflection, and 
thought himself "too much i' th' sun;" whoever has seen the 
golden lamp of day dimmed by envious mists rising in his own 
breast, and could find in the world before him only a dull blank 



1820-1830.] HAZLiTT. 225 

with nothing left remarkable in it; whoever has known "the pangs 
of despised love, the insolence of office, or the spurns which patient 
merit of the unworthy takes ;'^ he who has felt his mind sink within 
him, and sadness cling to his heart like a malady; who has had his 
hopes blighted and his youth staggered by the apparitions of 
strange things ; who cannot be well at ease, while he sees evil 
hovering near him like ^ a spectre ; whose powers of action have 
been eaten up by thought; he to whom the universe seems infinite, 
and himself nothing; whose bitterness of soul makes him careless 
of consequences, and who goes to a play as his best resource to 
drive oiF, to a second remove, the evils of life by a mock repre- 
sentation of them — -this is the true Hamlet. 

We have been so used to this tragedy that we hardly know how 
to criticise it any more than we should know how to describe our 
own faces. But we must make such observations as we can. It 
is the one of Shakspeare's plays that we think of oftenest, because 
it abounds most in striking reflections on human life, and because 
the distresses of Hamlet are transferred, by the turn of his mind, 
to the general account of humanity. Whatever happens to him, 
we apply to ourselves, because he applies it so himself as a means 
of general reasoning. He is a great moralizer; and what makes 
him worth attending to is that he moralizes on his own feelings 
and experience. He is not a common-place pedant. If Lear shows 
the greatest depth of passion, Hamlet is the most remarkable for 
the ingenuity, originality, and unstudied development of character. 
Shakspeare had more of the magnanimity of genius than any other 
poet, and he has shown more of it in this play than in any other. 
There is no attempt to force an interest; everything is left to time 
and circumstances. The attention is excited without premeditation 
or effort, the incidents succeed each other as matters of course, the 
characters think and speak and act just as they would do if left 
entirely to themselves. There is no set purpose, no straining at 
a point. The observations are suggested by the passing scene — 
the gusts of passion come and go like sounds of music borne on 
the wind. The whole play is an exact transcript of what might 
be supposed to have taken place at the court of Denmark, at the 
remote period of time fixed upon, before the modern refinements 
in morals and manners were heard of. 



SHAKSPEARE S FEMALE CHARACTERS. 

It is the peculiar characteristic of Shakspeare's heroines, that 
they seem to exist only in their attachment to others. They are 

20* 



226 HALL. [WILLIAM IV. 

pure abstractions of the affections. We think as little of their 
persons as they do themselves, because we are let into the secrets 
of their hearts, which are more important. We are too much in- 
terested in their affairs to stop to look at their faces, except by 
stealth and at intervals. No one ever hit the true perfection of 
the female character, the sense of weakness leaning on the strength 
of its affections for support, so well as Shakspeare — no one ever 
so well painted natural tenderness free from affectation and dis- 
guise — no one else ever so well showed how delicacy and timidity, 
when driven to extremity, grow romantic and extravagant; for the 
romance of his heroines (in which they abound) is only an excess 
of the habitual prejudices of their sex, scrupulous of being false 
to their vows, truant to the affections, and taught by the force of 
feeling when to forego the forms of propriety for the essence of 
it. His women are in this respect exquisite logicians; for there 
is nothing so logical as passion. They know their own minds 
exactly; and only follow up a favorite idea which they have sworn 
to with their tongues, and which is engraven on their hearts, into 
its untoward consequences. They are the prettiest little set of 
martyrs and confessors on record. 



ROBERT HALL, 1764— 183L 

This eminent writer and preacher, the son of a Baptist clergyman in 
Arnsby, in Leicestershire, was born at that place on the 2d of May, 1764. 
At a very early age he showed not only a remarkable fondness for books, 
but for such books as children never read ; for it is said that, before he was 
nine years old, he had read more than once '■ Edwards on the Affections, 
and on the Will," and "Butler's Analogy," and had written several 
essays on religious subjects. Such indications as these are not to be mis- 
taken, for they indubitably presage future eminence. He received the early 
part of his education in Northampton School, where he made great progress 
in Latin and Greek, and, in his fifteenth year, he was removed to Bristol 
Theological Seminary, under the direction of the Baptists. 

In 1780, he was solemnly "set apart" as a preacher of the Gospel, in 
connection with the Baptists, and, about a year after, he was sent to King's 
College, Aberdeen, where, among other friendships, he formed that of Mr., 
afterwards Sir James Mackintosh, which continued through life. In 1783, 
he was associated with Dr. Evans, as assistant pastor in the church at 
Bristol, and became also classical tutor at the academy in that city. From 
the very commencement of his ministrations, Mr. Hall's preaching attracted 



1830-1837.] HALL. 227 

an unusual degree of attention. His eloquence, remarkable alike for its 
brilliancy and its force, was a theme of general praise ; and, by his instruc- 
tive and fascinating conversation in private, he called forth equal admira- 
tion. 

In 1790, he succeeded the celebrated Robert Robinson, as minister of 
the Baptist congregation at Cambridge, where he labored with increasing 
reputation till 1804, when he was afflicted by a mental aberration, from 
which, however, he recovered sufficiently to discharge his pastoral duties in 
1805 ; but, towards the close of that year, he unhappily suflered a relapse, 
and it was deemed essential for his perfect restoration that he should pass 
a considerable time in tranquil retirement. Accordingly, he resigned his 
office at Cambridge in 1806, when his congregation testified their deep 
sense of his merits by purchasing for him an annuity for life. The effect 
of these attacks upon his health was to make him examine his own reli- 
gious exercises with more scrutinizing faithfulness, and to consecrate him- 
self more entirely to God. " His piety assumed a more exalted tone, his 
habits became more strictly devotional, and his exercises more fervent and 
elevated than they had ever hitherto been ; and he watched with jealous 
care over the whole tenor of his conduct, as well as every movement of his 
heart." 

His mental faculties being now completely restored, he accepted the 
invitation from a church in Leicester to become their pastor. Over 
this congregation he presided twenty years, a period undistinguished by 
any incident of very particular moment, excepting his marriage, which 
took place in March, 1808. During his residence here, however, he gave 
to the world several valuable productions, which greatly extended his fame 
and his influence, and contributed many valuable articles to the " Eclectic 
Review." He also engaged in a religious controversy upon what is called 
the " Terms of Communion," advocating with his usual energy, learning, 
and eloquence, the principle of " Open Communion.''^ 

In 1826, he removed to Bristol, the place where his ministerial career 
began, and where it was destined soon to come to a close. Reading and 
study, which had always been at once his bane and antidote, suffered no 
abatemen!; on account of his increasing infirmities. His opinion was that 
every species of knowledge might be rendered subservient to religion ; 
and works of almost every description be laid under contribution. His 
pastoral duties were discharged v/ith his usual faithfulness, but it soon 
became apparent that his health was declining. In 1830, he was compelled 
to try a change of air and scene. No ultimate benefit, however, was 
derived from this movement, and, after suffering severely from a complica- 
tion of disorders, he departed this life on the 21st of February, 1831. 

Robert Hall was not only the most distinguished ornament of the 
Christian body to which he belonged, but, as a preacher, his claims to 
pre-eminence were acknowledged by the ablest judges of every creed. 
His mental endowments were of the highest order, and his excellency con- 
sisted not in the predominance of one, but in the exquisite proportion and 
harmony of all his powers. A mind of naturally great capacity had been 



228 HALL. [WILLIAM IV. 

enriched by a course of reading of unusual extent, and he was thus enabled 
to draw his illustrations from an almost infinite variety of sources. His 
oratory was brilliant, but not unnecessarily showy, or encumbered with 
poetical images. His style is at once clear and simple, and the construc- 
tion of his sentences is characterized by ease, united with strength and 
compactness; so that his works display a union of elevation, learning, and 
elegance, to which it will be difficult to find a parallel among the works of 
divines.^ 

As to his personal character, it was everything becoming a Christian. 
His piety was pure, sincere, exalted, and untainted by bigotry or intole- 
rance. As a pastor, he was zealous, aflfectionate, and indefatigable in the 
discharge of his duties. In him, benevolence and humility were con- 
spicuous, and his affections were as warm as his intellect was strong. In 
social life he was open, communicative, sincere, and unostentatious. His 
conversation was on a level with his preaching, and displayed the same 
varied excellencies.^ 

Indeed, the world has seldom seen a character that united so much both 
of mind and heart, extensive learning, profoundness of thought, great 
eloquence, sincere and unaffected piety, and a benevolence that embraced 
the good of the whole human race.'^ 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 

Without the slightest warning, without the opportunity of a 
moment's immediate preparation, in the midst of the deepest 

» "Mr. Hall, like Bishop Taylor, has the eloquence of an orator, the fancy 
of a poet, the acuteness of a schoolman, the profoundness of a philosopher, and 
the piety of a saint." — D}-. Parr. 

" There is a living w^riter who combines the beauties of Johnson, Addison, 
and Burke, without their imperfections. It is a dissenting minister of Cam- 
bridge, the Rev. Robert Hall. Whoever wishes to see the English language 
in its perfection, must read his writings." — Dugald Steivart. 

" The richness, variety, and extent of his knowledge are not so remarkable 
as his absolute mastery over it. He moves about in the loftiest sphere of con- 
templation, as though he were 'native and endued to its element.' He uses 
the tinest classical allusions, the noblest images, and the most exquisite w^ords, 
as though they were those that came first to his mind, and which formed his 
natural dialect. There is not the least appearance of striving aflter greatness 
iu his most magnificent excursions, but he rises to the loftiest heights with a 
child-like ease. His style is one of the clearest and simplest — the least encum- 
bered with its own beauty — of any which ever has been written." — hondon 
Magazine^ February^ 1821. 

2 The degree of Doctor of Divinity was conferred upon him, but, believing it 
unscriptural, he never assumed the title. Indeed, he was really great, and 
did not need it. 

3 The collected works of Robert Hall, with various posthumous productions, 
and a memoir of his life by Dr. Gregory, were published in 1832, in six 
volumes 8vo. Read an article in the " Edinburgh Review," vol. xlv. p 147 ; 
and another in the ''Quarterly," vol. xlviii. p. 100. 



1830-1837.] HALL. 229 

tranquillity, at midnight a voice was heard in the palace, not of 
singing men, afid singing women, not of revelry and mirth, but the 
cry, "Behold the bridegroom cometh V The mother in the bloom 
of youth, spared just long enough to hear the tidings of her 
infant's death, almost immediately^ as if summoned by his spirit, 
follows him into eternity. " It is a night much to be remem- 
bered." Who foretold this event, who conjectured it, who de- 
tected at a distance the faintest presage of its approach, which, 
when it arrived, mocked the efforts of human skill, as much by 
their incapacity to prevent, as their inability to foresee it ! 
Unmoved by the tears of conjugal affection, unawed by the pre- 
sence of grandeur, and the prerogatives of power, inexorable death 
hastened to execute his stern commission, leaving nothing to royal- 
ty itself but to retire and weep. Who can fail to discern on this 
awful occasion, the hand of Him who " bringeth the princes to 
nothing, who maketli the judges of the earth as vanity;'^ who says 
" they shall not be planted ; yea, they shall not be sown ; yea, 
their stock shall not take root in the earth f and he " shall blow 
upon them, and they shall wither, and the whirlwind shall take 
them away as stubble." 

But is it now any subject of regret, think you, to this amiable 
princess so suddenly removed, "that her sun went down while it 
was yet day," or that, prematurely snatched from prospects the 
most brilliant and enchanting, she was compelled to close her eyes 
so soon on a world of whose grandeur she formed so conspicuous a 
part ? No ! in the full fruition of eternal joys, for which we humbly 
hope religion prepared her, she is so far from looking back with 
lingering regret on what she has quitted, that she is surprised it 
had the power of affecting her so much ; that she took so deep an 
interest in the scenes of this shadowy state of being, while so near 
to an " eternal weight of glory ;" and, as far as memory may be 
supposed to contribute to her happiness, by associating the present 
with the past, it is not the recollection of her illustrious birth, and 
elevated prospects, but that she visited the abodes of the poor, and 
learned to weep with those that weep ; that, surrounded with the 
fascinations of pleasure, she was not inebriated by its charms ; that 
she resisted the strongest temptations to pride; preserved her 
ears open to truth, was impatient of the voice of flattery : in a 
word, that she sought and cherished the inspirations of piety, and 
walked humbly with her Grod. 

The nation has certainly not been wanting in the proper expres- 
sion of its poignant regret, at the sudden removal of this most 
lamented princess, nor of their sympathy with the royal family, 
deprived by this visitation of its brightest ornament. Sorrow is 



230 HALL. [WILLIAM IV. 

painted in every countenance, the pursuits of business and of 
pleasure have been suspended, and the kingdom "is covered with 
the signals of distress. But what, my friends (if it were lawful to 
indulge such a thought), what would be the funeral obsequies of 
a lo^t soul ? Where shall we find tears fit to be wept at such a 
spectacle, or, could we realize the calamity in all its extent, what 
tokens of commiseration and concera would be deemed equal to 
the occasion ? Would it suffice for the sun to veil his light, and 
the moon her brightness ; to cover the ocean with mourning, and 
the heavens with sackcloth ; or, were the whole fabric of nature 
to become animated and vocal, would it be possible for her to 
utter a groan too deep, or a cry too piercing, to express the mag- 
nitude and extent of such a catastrophe ? 



THE HAPPY PROSPECTS OF THE RIGHTEOUS. 

If the mere conception of the reunion of good men, in a future 
state, infused a momentary rapture into the mind of Tully ', if an 
airj speculation — for there is reason to fear it had little hold on 
his convictions — could inspire him with such delight, what may 
we be expected to feel, who are assured of such an event by the 
true sayings of God ! How should we rejoice in the prospect, the 
certainty rather, of spending a blissful eternity with those whom 
we loved on earth, of seeing them emerge from the ruins of the 
tomb, and the deeper ruins of the fall, not only uninjured, but 
refined and perfected, ^^with every tear wiped from their eyes," 
standing before the throne of God and the Lamb, in white robes, 
and palms in their hands, crying with a loud voice, Salvation to 
God, who sitteth upon the throne, and to the Lamb, for ever and 
ever ! What delight will it afford to renew the sweet counsel we 
have taken together, to recount the toils of the combat, and the 
labor of the wtiy, and to approach, not the house, but the throne 
of God, in company, in order to join in the symphonies of heaven- 
ly voices, and lose ourselves amidst the splendors and fruitions of 
the beatific vision ! 

To that state all the pious on earth are tending; and if there is 
a law from whose operation none are exempt, which irresistibly 
conveys their bodies to darkness and to dust, there is another, not 
less certain or less powerful, which conducts their spirits to the 
abodes of bliss, to the bosom of their Father and their God. The 
wheels of nature are not made to roll backward; everything 
presses on towards eternity ,• from the birth of time an impetuous 



1830-1837.] HALL. 231 

current has set in, which bears all the sons of men towards that 
interminable ocean. Meanwhile, heaven is attracting to itself 
whatever is congenial to its nature, is enriching itself by the spoils 
of earth, and collecting within its capacious bosom whatever is 
pure, permanent, and divine, leaving nothing for the last fire to 
consume but the objects and the slaves of concupiscence; while 
everything which grace has prepared and beautified shall be ga- 
thered and selected from the ruins of the world, to adorn that eternal 
city which hath no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine 
in it, for the glory of God doth enlighten it, and the Lamb is the 
light thereof. 



HENRY MARTYN AND DAVID BRAINERD. 

Crowned with the highest honors a university could bestow, we 
see him quit the luxurious shades of academic bowers, for a tem- 
pestuous ocean and a burning clime — for a life of peril and fatigue, 
from which he could expect no other reward than the heroic 
pleasure of communicating to perishing millions the word of 
eternal life. He appears to have formed his religious character 
chiefly on the model of Brainerd ; and as he equalled him in his 
patience, fortitude, humility, and love, so he strictly resembled 
him in his end. Both nearly at the same age fell victims to a 
series of intolerable privations and fatigues, voluntarily incurred in 
the course of their exertions for the propagation of the faith of 
Jesus. And though their death was not a violent one, the sacri- 
fices they made and the sufferings they endured entitled them to 
the honors and rewards of a protracted martyrdom. Their memory 
will be cherished by the veneration of all succeeding ages ; and 
he who reads their lives will be ready to exclaim, ^^Here is the 
faith and patience of the saints." 



TRUE FRIENDSHIP. 

Friendship founded on the principles of worldly morality, recog- 
nized by virtuous heathens, such as that which subsisted between 
Atticus and Cicero, which the last of these illustrious men has 
rendered immortal, is fitted to survive through all the vicissitudes 
of life ; but it belongs only to a union founded on religion, to con- 
tinue through an endless duration. The former of these stood the 
shock of conflicting opinions, and of a revolution that shook the 



232 HALL. [WILLIAM IV. 

world ; the latter is destined to survive when the heavens are no 
more, and to spring fresh from the ashes of the universe. The 
former possessed all the stability which is possible to sublunary 
things ; the latter partakes of the eternity of God. Friendship 
founded on worldly principles is natural, and though composed of 
the best elements of nature, is not exempt from its mutability and 
frailty ; the latter is spiritual, and therefore unchanging and im- 
perishable. The friendship which is founded on kindred tastes 
and congenial habits, apart from piety, is permitted by the 
benignity of Providence to embellish a world which, with all its 
magnificence and beauty, will shortly pass away ; that which has 
religion for its basis will, ere long, be transplanted in order to 
adorn the paradise of Grod. 



HOMER AND MILTON. 

Perhaps few authors have been distinguished by more similar 
features of character than Homer and Milton. That vastness of 
thought which fills the imagination, and that sensibility of spirit 
which renders every circumstance interesting, are the qualities of 
both ', but Milton is the most sublime, and Homer the most pic- 
turesque. Homer lived in an early age, before knowledge was much 
advanced; he would derive little from any acquired abilities, and 
therefore may be styled the poet of nature. To this source, per- 
haps, we may trace the principal difierence between Homer and 
Milton. The Grecian poet was left to the movements of his own 
mind, and to the full influence of that variety of passions which 
are common to all ; his conceptions are therefore distinguished by 
their simplicity and force. In Milton, who was skilled in almost 
every department of science, learning seems sometimes to have 
shaded the splendor of genius. 

No epic poet excites emotions so fervid as Homer, or possesses 
so much fire; but in point of sublimity he cannot be compared to 
Milton. I rather think the Greek poet has been thought to excel 
in this quality more than he really does, for want of a proper concep- 
tion of its effects. When the perusal of an author raises us above 
our usual tone of mind, we immediately ascribe those sensations 
to the sublime, without considering whether they light on the ima- 
gination or the feelings; whether they elevate the fancy or only 
fire the passions. 

The sublime has for its object the imagination only, and its 
influence is not so ftiuch to occasion any fervor of feeling as the 
calmness of fixed astonishment. If we consider the sublime as 



1830-1837.] HALL. ^ 233 

thus distinguished from every other quality, Milton will appear 
to possess it in an unrivalled degree ; and here indeed lies the 
secret of his power. The perusal of Homer inspires us with an 
ardent sensibility; Milton with the stillness of surprise. The one 
fills and delights the mind with the confluence of various emotions; 
the other amazes with the vastness of his ideas. The movements 
of Milton's mind are steady and progressive : he carries the fancy 
through successive stages of elevation, and gradually increases the 
heat by adding fuel to the fire. 

The flights of Homer are more sudden and transitory. Milton, 
whose mind was enlightened by science, appears the most com- 
prehensive ; he shows more acuteness in his reflections, and more 
sublimity of thought. Homer, who lived more with men, and 
had, perhaps, a deeper tincture of the human passions, is by far 
the most vehement and picturesque. To the view of Milton, the 
wide scenes of the universe seem to have been thrown open, which 
he regards with a cool and comprehensive survey, little agitated, 
and superior to those emotions which aflect inferior mortals. 
Homer, when he rises the highest, goes not beyond the bounds 
of human nature ; he still connects his descriptions with human 
passions, and though his ideas have less sublimity, they have more 
fire. The appetite for greatness — that appetite which always 
grasps at more than it can contain — is never so fully satisfied as in 
the perusal of " Paradise Lost.'^ In following Milton, we grow 
familiar with new worlds, we traverse the immensities of space, 
wandering in amazement, and finding no bounds. Homer con- 
fines the mind to a narrower circle, but that circle he brings 
nearer to the eye ; he fills it with a quicker succession of objects, 
and makes it the scene of more interesting action. 



IMPOLICY OF INTOJ.ERANCE. 

All violence exerted towards opinions which falls short of ex- 
termination serves no other purpose than to render them more 
known, and ultimately to increase the zeal and number of their 
abettors. Opinions that are false may bo dissipated by the force 
of argument; when they are true, their punishment draws towards 
them infallibly more of the public attention, and enables them to 
dwell with more lasting weight and pressure on the mind. The 
progress of reason is aided, in this case, by the passions, and finds 
in curiosity, compassion, and resentment, powerful auxiliaries. 

When public discontents are allowed to vent themselves in 
21 



234 HALL. [WILLIAM IV. 

reasoning and discourse, they subside into a calm ; but their con- 
finement in the bosom is apt to give them a fierce and deadly 
tincture. The reason of this is obvious ; as men are seldom dis- 
posed to complain till they at least imagine themselves injured, so 
there is no injury which they will remember so long, or resent so 
deeply, as that of being threatened into silence. This seems like 
adding triumph to oppression, and insult to injury. The apparent 
tranquillity which may ensue is delusive and ominous ; it is that 
awful stillness which nature feels while she is awaiting the dis- 
charge of the gathered tempest. 



MISERIES OF ^VAU^ 

To confine our attention to the number of the slain would 
give us a very inadequate idea of the ravages of the sword. The 
lot of those w^ho perish instantaneously may be considered, apart 
from religious prospects, as comparatively happy, since they are 
exempt from those lingering diseases and slow torments to which 
others are liable. We cannot see an individual expire, though a 
stranger or an enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted 
by compassion to lend him every assistance in our power. Every 
trace of resentment vanishes in a moment ; ever}^ other emotion 
gives way to pity and terror. In these last extremities, we remem- 
ber nothing but the respect and tenderness due to our common 
nature. AVhat a scene then must a field of battle present, where 
thousands are left without assistance and without pity, with their 
wounds exposed to the piercing air, while the blood, freezing as 
it flows, binds them to the earth, amid the trampling of horses, 
and the insults of an enraged foe ! If they are spared by the 
humanity of the enemy, and carried from the field, it is but a 
prolongation of torment. Conveyed in uneasy vehicles, often to 
a remote distance, through roads almost impassable, they are 
lodged in ill-prepared receptacles for the wounded and the sick, 
where the variety of distress bafiles all the efi'orts of humanity 
and skill, and renders it impossible to give to each the attention 
he demands. Far from their native home, no tender assiduities 
of friendship, no well-known voice, no wife, or mother, or sister 
is near to soothe their sorrows, relieve their thirst, or close their 
eyes in death. Unhappy man ! and must you be swept into 

» The "Morning Star of the Reformation," John Wiclif, thus writes: 
" "What honor falls to a knight that kills many men? The hangman killeth 
with a better title. Better were it for men to be butchers of beasts than 
butchers of their brethren." 



1830-1837.] HALL. 235 

the grave unnoticed and unnumbered, and no friendly tear be 
shed for your sufferings, or mingled with your dust ! 

We must remember, however, that, as a very small proportion 
of a military life is spent in actual combat, so it is a very small part 
of its miseries which must be ascribed to this source. More are 
consumed by the rust of inactivity than by the edge of the sword. 
Confined to a scanty or unwholesome diet, exposed in sickly 
climates, harassed with tiresome marches and perpetual alarms, 
their life is a continual scene of hardships and dangers. They 
grow familiar with hunger, cold, and watchfulness. Crowded into 
hospitals and prisons, contagion spreads among their ranks, till 
the ravages of disease exceed those of the enemy. * * 

Conceive but for a moment the consternation which the approach 
of an invading army would impress on the peaceful villages in this 
neighborhood. When you have placed yourselves for an instant 
in that situation, you will learn to sympathize with those unhappy 
countries which have sustained the ravages of arms. But how is 
it possible to give you an idea of these horrors ? Here you behold 
rich harvests, the bounty of heaven and the reward of industry, 
consumed in a moment, or trampled under foot, while famine and 
pestilence follow the steps of desolation. There the cottages of 
peasants given up to the flames ; mothers expiring through fear, 
not for themselves, but their infants ; the inhabitants flying with 
their helpless babes in all directions, miserable fugitives on their 
native soil ! In another part you witness opulent cities taken by 
storm ; the streets, where no sounds were heard but those of peace- 
ful industry, filled on a sudden with slaughter and blood, resound- 
ing with the cries of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of 
nobles demolished, the houses of the rich pillaged, the chastity of 
virgins and of matrons violated, and every age, sex, and rank 
mingled in promiscuous massacre and ruin. * * ^ 

The contests of nations are both the ofi'spring and the parent of 
injustice. The word of God ascribes the existence of war to the 
disorderly passions of men. Whence come wars and fightings 
among you? saith the Apostle James ; come they not from your 
lusts that war in your m.emhersf It is certain two nations cannot 
engage in hostilities but one party must be guilty of injustice ; 
and if the magnitude of crimes is to be estimated by a regard to 
their consequences, it is difficult to conceive an action of equal 
guilt with the wanton violation of peace. It sinks every other 
crime into insignificance. If the existence of war always implies 
injustice in one at least of the parties concerned, it is also 
the fruitful parent of crimes. It reverses, with i-espect to its ohjectSj 
all the rules of morality. It is nothing less than a temporary 



236 HALL. [WILLIAM IV. 

re-peal of the principles of virtue. It is a system out of which 
almost all the virtues are excluded, and in which nearly all the 
vices are incorporated. "Whatever renders human nature amiable 
or respectable, whatever engages love or confidence, is sacrificed 
at its shrine. Hence the morality of peaceful times is directly 
opposite to the maxims of war. The fundamental rule of the 
first is to do good; of the latter, to inflict injuries. The former 
commands us to succor the oppressed ; the latter, to overwhelm 
the defenceless. The former teaches men to love their enemies ; 
the latter, to make themselves terrible even to strangers. The 
rules of morality will not sufier us to promote the dearest inte- 
rest by falsehood ; the maxims of war applaud it when employed 
in the destruction of others. That a familiarity with such 
maxims must tend to harden the heart, as well as to pervert the 
moral sentiments, is too obvious to need illustration. The natural 
consequence of their prevalence is an unfeeling and unprincipled 
ambition, with an idolatry of talents, and a contempt of virtue ) 
whence the esteem of mankind is turned from the humble, the 
beneficent, and the good, to men who are qualified by a genius 
fertile in expedients, a courage that is never appalled, and a heart 
that never pities, to become the destroyers of the earth. While 
the philanthropist is devising means to mitigate the evils and 
augment the happiness of the world, a fellow-worker together with 
God in exploring and giving efi^ct to the benevolent tendencies 
of nature, the warrior is revolving, in the gloomy recesses of his 
capacious mind, plans of future devastation and ruin. Prisons 
crowded with captives, cities emptied of their inhabitants, fields 
desolate and waste, are among his proudest trophies. The fabric 
of his fame is cemented with tears and blood ; and if his name is 
wafted to the ends of the earth, it is in the shrill cry of sufi"ering 
humanity; in the curses and imprecations of those whom his sword 
has reduced to despair. 



THE BIBLE. 

The Bible is the treasure of the poor, the solace of the sick, and 
the support of the dying; and while other books may amuse and 
instruct in a leisure hour, it is the peculiar triumph of that book 
to create light in the midst of darkness, to alleviate the sorrow 
which admits of no other alleviation, to direct a beam of hope to 
the heart which no other topic of consolation can reach ; while 
guilt, despair, and death vanish at the touch of its holy inspira- 
tion. There is something in the spirit and diction of the Bible 



1830-1837.] HALL. 237 

which is found peculiarly adapted to arrest the attention of the 
plainest and most uncultivated minds. The simple structure of 
its sentences, combined with a lofty spirit of poetry — its familiar 
allusions to the scenes of nature, and the transactions of common 
life — the delightful intermixture of narration with the doctrinal 
and preceptive parts — and the profusion of miraculous facts, which 
convert it into a sort of enchanted ground — its constant advert- 
ence to the Deity, whose perfections it renders almost visible and 
palpable — unite in bestowing upon it an interest which attaches 
to no other performance, and which, after assiduous and repeated 
perusal, invests it with much of the charm of novelty ; like the 
great orb of day, at which we are wont to gaze with unabated aston- 
ishment from infancy to old age. What other book besides the 
Bible could be heard in public assemblies from year to year, with 
an attention that never tires, and an interest that never cloys? 
With few exceptions, let a portion of the Sacred Volume be recited 
in a mixed multitude, and though it has been heard a thousand 
times, a universal stillness ensues, every eye is fixed, and every 
ear is awake and attentive. Select, if you can, any other compo- 
sition, and let it be rendered equally familiar to the mind, and 
see whether it will produce this effect. 



THE ADAPTATION OF CHRISTIANITY. 

When we look at Christianity in the New Testament, we see a 
set of discoveries, promises, and precepts, adapted to influence the 
whole character ; it presents an object of incessant solicitude, in 
the pursuit of which new efforts are to be exerted and new victo- 
ries accomplished, in a continued course of well-doing, till we 
reach the heavenly mansions. There is scarce a spring in the 
human frame and constitution it is not calculated to touch, nor 
any portian of human agency which is exempted from its control. 
Its resources are inexhaustible ; and the considerations by which 
it challenges attention embrace whatever is most awful or alluring 
in the whole range of possible existence. Instead of being allowed 
to repose on his past attainments, or to flatter himself with the 
hope of success without the exercise of diligence and watchfulness, 
the Christian is commanded to work out his salvation with fear 
and trembling. In the actual exhibition of religion, the solicitude 
of serious minds has been made to turn too much on a particular 
crisis, which has been presented in a manner so insulated that 
nothing in the order of means seemed instrumental to its produc- 
tion. In short, things have been represented in such a manner 

21* 



238 MACKENZIE. [WILLIAM IV. 

as was too apt to produce despondency before conversion, and 
presumption after it. 



BENEFITS OP RETIREMENT. 

He must know little of the world, and still less of his own 
heart, who is not aware how difficult it is, amid the corrupting 
examples with which it abounds, to maintain the spirit of devo- 
tion unimpaired, or to preserve, in their due force and delicacy, 
those vivid moral impressions, that quick perception of good, and 
instinctive abhorrence of evil, which form the chief characteristic 
of a pure and elevated mind. These, like the morning dew, are 
easily brushed off in the collisions of worldly interest, or exhaled 
by the meridian sun. Hence the necessity of frequent intervals 
of retirement, when the mind may recover its scattered powers, 
and renew its strength by a devout application to the Fountain of 
all grace. 

DR. PRIESTLEY. 

The religious tenets of Dr. Priestley appear to me erroneous 
in the extreme ; but I should be sorry to suffer any difference of 
sentiment to diminish my sensibility to virtue or my admiration 
of genius. From him the poisoned arrow will fall pointless. His 
enlightened and active mind, his unwearied assiduity^ the extent 
of his researches, the light he has poured into almost every depart- 
ment of science, will be the admiration of that period when the 
greater part of those who have favored, or those who have opposed 
him, will be alike forgotten. Distinguished merit will ever rise 
superior to oppression, and will draw lustre from reproach. The 
vapors which gather round the rising sun, and follow it in its 
course, seldom fail at the close of it to form a magnificent theatre 
for its reception, and to invest with variegated tints, and with a 
softened effulgence, the luminary which they cannot hide. 



HENRY MACKENZIE, 1745-1831. 

Henky Mackenzie, the son of Dr. Joshua Mackenzie, an eminent 
physician of Edinburgh, was born in that city in August, 1745. After 
being educated at the High School and University of Edinburgh, Mr. 



1830-1837.] MACKENZIE. 289 

Mackenzie engaged in the study of the law, and became an attorney in 
the Court of the Exchequer, in that city, in the latter end of the year 1766. 
In the year 1771 appeared, anonymously, the work for which he is chiefly 
celebrated, entitled " The Man of Feeling." It rose immediately to great 
popularity, and was followed, a few years after, by "The Man of the 
World," which, though somewhat inferior to the former, breathes the 
same tone of exquisite sensibility. In the first-named work, the author 
paints his hero as constantly obedient to every emotion of his moral sense; 
in the "Man of the World," on the contrary, he exhibits a person luishing 
headlong into vice and ruin, and spreading misery all around him, by en- 
deavoring to grasp at happiness in defiance of the moral sense. In 1778. 
having become a member of a new literary society in Edinburgh, he sug- 
gested the institution of a new periodical paper similar to the " Spectator." 
The scheme was speedily carried into effect, and the papers, under the title 
of " The Mirror," of v.'hich Mr. Mackenzie was the editor, were published 
in weekly numbers, and were subsequently republished with the names of 
the authors,' in three duodecimo volumes. 

To the "Mirror" succeeded the "Lounger," a periodical of similar 
character, and equally successful. Mr. Mackenzie was the most valuable 
contributor to both these works. His papers are distinguished from all the 
rest by that sweetness and beauty of style, and tenderness of feeling, which 
form the peculiar character of his writings. Mr. Mackenzie, in the " Loung- 
er," No. 97, was the first to appreciate the genius of Burns, in a review of 
his poems then recently published, by which the poet was brought into 
public notice and prevented from quitting his country, as he intended, for the 
West Indies. After this, Mr. Mackenzie published a number of dramas, 
but, though they possessed considerable merit as literary productions, they 
were not successful on the stage. His celebrity is derived principally from 
his "Essays," and his "Man of Feehng," which are distinguished by a 
beauty of style, depth of pathos, and ^elicacy of imagination, that will al- 
ways render them popular. In private life, Mr, Mackenzie "was not more 
distinguished by the wit with which he enlivened a numerous circle of 
attached friends than the benevolence and wisdom with which he counselled 
and assisted them." This ornament of his native city died at Edinburgh, 
at the advanced age of eighty- six, rather from the decay of nature than from 
disease, on the 14th of January, 1831.^ 

Few modern writers have been more fortunate than Mr. Mackenzie in 

* The '-Mirror Club" consisted of Mr. Mackenzie, the chief contributor, 
Mr. Craig, Mr. Cullen, Mr. Bannatyue, Mr. Macleod, Mr. Abercrombie, Mr. 
George Home, and a few others. 

2 A complete edition of his works was published at Edinburgh, in 8 vols. 
Svo. in 1808. Sir Walter Scott held the talents of Mr. Mackenzie in great 
estimation, and in dedicating to him the novel of " Waverley," styled him the 
Scotch Addison. In summing up his merits as a novelist and essayist, the 
same high authority observes : "The historian of the 'Homespun Family' 
may place his narrative, without fear of shame, by the side of the ' Vicar of 
Wakefield ;' and many passages in those papers, which he contributed to the 
'Mirror' and 'Lounger,' attest with what truth, spirit, and ease he could 
describe, assume, and sustain a variety of characters." 



240 MACKENZIE. [WILLIAM IV. 

their appeals to the heart ; and his fictions in the "Mirror" hold a con- 
spicuous rank among the best efforts in pathetic composition. The story 
of " Le Roche," in Nos, 42, 43, and 44, has been frequently republished as a 
tract, but it is too long to insert here. Scarcely, if at all inferior to this, in 
true delicacy and pathos, is the touching narration in No. 49 — the 



STORY OF NANCY COLLINS. 

• As I walked one evening, about a fortnight ago, tlirougli St. 
Andrew's Square, I observed a girl meanly dressed, coming along 
the pavement at a slow pace. When I passed her, she turned a 
little towards me, and made a sort of halt, but said nothing. I 
am ill at looking anybody full in the face, so I went on a few 
steps before I turned my eye to observe her. She had, by this 
time, resumed her former pace. I remarked a certain elegance in 
her form which the poorness of her garb could not altogether 
overcome; her person was thin and genteel, and there was some- 
thing not ungraceful in the stoop of her head and the seeming 
feebleness with which she walked. I could not resist the desire, 
which her appearance gave me, of knowing somewhat of her situa- 
tion and circumstances ; I therefore walked back, and repassed her 
with such a look (for I could bring myself to nothing more) as 
might induce her to speak what she seemed desirous to say at 
first. This had the effect I wished. " Pity a poor orphan !" said 
she, in a voice tremulous and weak. I stopped, and put my hand 
in my pocket. I had now a better opportunity of observing her. 
Her face was thin and pale; pqjrt of it was shaded by her hair, of 
a light brown color, which was parted in a disordered manner at 
her forehead, and hung loose upon her shoulders; round them was 
cast a piece of tattered cloak, which with one hand she held across 
her bosom, while the other was half outstretched to receive the 
bounty I intended for her. Her large blue eyes were cast on the 
ground ; she was drawing back her hand as I put a trifle into it ; 
on receiving which she turned them up to me, muttered some- 
thing which I could not hear, and then letting go her cloak and 
pressing her hands together, burst into tears. 

It was not the action of an ordinary beggar, and my curiosity 
was strongly excited by it. I desired her to follow me to the 
house of a friend hard by, whose beneficence I have often had 
occasion to know. When she arrived there, she was so fatigued 
and worn out that it was not till after some means used to restore 
her that she was able to give us an account of her misfortunes. 

Her name; she told us, was Collins ; the place of her birth one 



1830-1837.] MACKENZIE. 241 

of the northern counties of England. Her father, who had died 
several years ago, left her remaining parent with the charge of 
her, then a child, and one brother, a lad of seventeen. By his 
industry, however, joined to that of her mother, they were tole- 
rably supported, their father having died possessed of a small farm, 
with the right of pasturage on an adjoining common, from which 
they obtained a decent livelihood ; that last summer her brother, 
having become acquainted with a recruiting sergeant, who was 
quartered in a neighboring village, was by him enticed to enlist 
as a soldier, and soon after was marched off, along with some 
other recruits, to join his regiment; that this, she believed, broke 
her mother's heart ; for that she had never afterwards had a day's 
health, and, at length, had died about three weeks ago ; that, im- 
mediately after her death, the steward employed by the ^squire 
of whom their farm was held, took possession of everything for 
the arrears of their rent; that, as she had heard her brother's 
regiment was in Scotland when he enlisted, she had wandered 
hither in quest of him, as she had no other relation in the world 
to own her ! But she found, on arriving here, that the regiment 
had been embarked several months before, and was gone a great 
way off, she could not tell whither. 

'' This news,^' said she, ^^ laid hold of my heart, and I have had 
something wrong here,^^ putting her hand to her bosom, " ever 
since. I got a bed and some victuals in the house of a woman 
here in town, to whom I told my story, and who seemed to pity 
me. I had then a little bundle of things which I had been 
allowed to take with me after my mother's death ; but the night 
before last somebody stole it from me while I slept, and so the 
woman said she would keep me no longer, and turned me out 
into the street, where I have since remained, and am almost 
famished for want.'' 

She was now in better hands ; but our assistance had come too 
late. A frame, naturally delicate, had yielded to the fatigues of 
her journey and the hardships of her situation. She declined by 
slow but uninterrupted degrees, and yesterday breathed her last. 
A short while before she expired, she asked to see me, and taking 
from her bosom a silver locket, which she told me had been her 
mother's, and which all her distresses could not make her part 
with, begged I would keep it for her dear brother, and give it 
him, if ever he should return home, as a token of her remembrance. 

I felt this poor girl's fate strongly; but I tell not her story 
merely to indulge my feelings ; I would make the reflections it 
may excite in my readers useful to others who may suffer from 
similar causes. There are many, I fear, from whom their 



242 MACKENZIE. [WILLIAM IV. 

country has called brothers, sons, or fathers, to bleed in her ser- 
vice, forlorn, like poor Nancy Collins, with '^ no relation in the 
world to own them.^' Their sufferings are often unknown when 
they are such as most demand compassion. The mind that can- 
not obtrude its distresses on the ear of pity is formed to feel their 
poignancy the deepest. 

In our idea of military operations, we are too apt to forget the 
misfortunes of the people. In defeat, we think of the fall, and 
in victory, of the glory of commanders; we seldom allow our- 
selves to consider how many in a lower rank both events make 
wretched ; how many, amidst the acclamations of national tri- 
umph, are left to the helpless misery of the widowed and the 
orphan, and, while victory celebrates her festival, feel, in their 
distant hovels, the extremities of want and wretchedness ! 

In humorous delineation, also, Mr. Mackenzie has presented us with 
various specimens. The descriptions of the " Homespun Family" in the 
" Mirror," and of the "Mushroom Family" in the "Lounger," are told 
in such a delicate vein of irony, satire, and humor, as to rival the best papers 
of that character in the " Spectator" of Addison. 



THE HOMESPUN FAMILY. 

To the Author of the " Mirror.'' 

Sir : Some time ago I troubled you with a letter giving an 
account of a particular sort of grievance felt by the families of men 
of small fortunes, from their acquaintance with those of great 
ones. I am emboldened by the favorable reception of my first 
letter to write you a second upon the same subject. 

You will remember, sir, my account of a visit which my daugh- 
ters paid to a great lady in our neighborhood, and of the effects 
which that visit had upon them. I was beginning to hope that 
time and the sobriety of manners which home exhibited would 
restore them to their former situation, when, unfortunately, a cir- 
cumstance happened still more fatal to me than their expedition 

to . This, sir, was the honor of a visit from the great lady 

in return. 

I was just returning from the superintendence of my ploughs 
in a field I have lately enclosed, when I was met on the green 
before my door by a gentleman (for such I took him to be), 
mounted upon a very handsome gelding, who asked me, by the 
appellation of honest friend, if this was not Mr. Homespun's ; 
and, in the same breath, whether the ladies were at home. I told 



1830-1837.] MACKENZIE. 243 

him my name was Homespun, the house was mine, and my wife 
and daughters were, I believed, within. Upon this, the young man, 
pulling off his hat, and begging my pardon for calling me honest, 

said he was dispatched by Lady with her compliments to 

Mrs. and Misses Homespun, and that, if convenient, she intended 

herself the honor of dining with them on her return from B 

Park (the seat of another great and rich lady in our neighborhood). 

I confess, Mr. Mirror, I was struck somewhat of an heap with 
the message, and it would not, in all probability, have received 
an immediate answer had it not been overheard by my eldest 
daughter, who had come to the window on the appearance of a 
stranger. '' Mr. Papillot,'' said she immediately, " I rejoice to 
see you; I hope your lady and all the family are well.^' " Very 
much at your service, ma'am," he replied, with a low bow ; " my 
lady sent me before with the offer of her best compliments, and 
that, if convenient" — and so forth, repeating his words to me. 
'' She does us infinite honor," said my young madam ; " let her 
ladyship know how happy her visit will make us ; but, in the 
mean time, Mr. Papillot, give your horse to one of the servants, 
and come in and have a glass of something after your ride." "I 
am afraid," answered he (pulling out his right-hand watch, for, 
would you believe it, sir ? the fellow had one in each fob), " I 
shall hardly have time to meet my lady at the place she appointed 
me." On a second invitation, however, he dismounted and went 
into the house^ leaving his horse to the care of the servants ; but 
the servants, as my daughter very well knew, were all in the 
fields at work ; so I, who have a liking for a good horse, and can- 
not bear to see him neglected, had the honor of putting Mr. 
Papillot's in the stable myself. 

After about an hour's stay, for the gentleman seemed to forget 
his hurry within doors, Mr. Papillot departed. My daughters, I 
mean the two polite ones, observed how handsome he was, and 
added another observation, that it was only to particular friends 
my lady sent messages by him, who was her own body servant, 
and not accustomed to such offices. My wife seemed highly 
pleased with this last remark; I was about to be angry, but on 
such occasions it is not my way to say much; I generally shrug 
up my shoulders in silence, yet, as I said before, Mr. Mirror, I 
would not have you think me hen-pecked. 

By this time, every domestic about my house, male and female, 
were called from their several employments to assist in the pre- 
parations for her ladyship's reception. It would tire you to 
enumerate the various shifts that were made by purchasing, bor- 
rowing, &c., to furnish out a dinner suitable to the occasion. My 



244 MACKENZIE. [WILLIAM IV. 

little gray pony, which I keep for sending to market, broke his 
wind in the cause, and has never been good for anything since. 

Nor was there less ado in making ourselves and our attendants 
fit to appear before such company. The female part of the family 
managed the matter pretty easily; women, I observe, having a 
natural talent that way. My wife took upon herself the charge 
of apparelling me for the occasion. A laced suit, which I had 
worn at my marriage, was got up for the purpose; but the 
breeches burst a seam at the very first attempt of pulling them 
on, and the sleeves of the coat were also impracticable ; so she 
was forced to content herself with clothing me in my Sunday^s 
coat and breeches, with the laced waistcoat of the above-mentioned 
suit, slit in the back, to set them off a little. My gardener, who 
has been accustomed, indeed, to serve in many capacities, had 
his head cropped, curled, and powdered, for the part of butler ; 
one of the best-looking ploughboys had a yellow cape clapped to 
his Sunday's coat, to make him pass for a servant in livery; and 
we borrowed my son-in-law the parson's man for a third hand. 

All this was accomplished, though not without some tumult 
and disorder, before the arrival of the great lady. She gave us, 
indeed, more time for the purpose than we looked for, as it was 
near six o'clock before she arrived. But this was productive 
of a misfortune on the other hand; the dinner my poor wife had 
bustled, sweated, and scolded for, was so over-boiled, over-stewed, 
and over-roasted, that it needed the appetite of so late an hour to 
make it go well down even with me, who am not very nice in 
these matters; luckily, her ladyship, as I am told, never eats 
much for fear of spoiling her shape, now that small waists have 
come into fashion again. 

The dinner, however, though spoiled in the cooking, was not 
thrown away, as her ladyship's train made shift to cat the great- 
est part of it. When I say her train, I do not mean her servants 
only, of which there were half a dozen in livery, besides the 
illustrious Mr. Papillot and her ladyship's maid — gentlew^oman, T 
should say — who had a table to themselves. Her parlor attend- 
ants were equally numerous, consisting of two ladies and six gen- 
tlemen, who had accompanied her ladyship in this excursion, and 
did us the honor of coming to eat and drink with us, and bringing 
their servants to do the same, though we had never seen or heard 
of them before. 

During the progress of this entertainment, there were several 
little embarrassments which might appear ridiculous in description, 
but were matters of serious distress to us. Soup was spilled, 
dishes overturned, and glasses broken, by the awkwardness of 



1830-1837.] MACKENZIE. 245 

our attendants, and things were not a bit mended by my wife's 
solicitude (who, to do her justice, had all her eyes about her) to 
correct them. 

From the time of her ladyship's arrival, it was impossible that 
dinner could be over before it was dark ; this, with the considera- 
tion of the bad road she had to pass through in her way to the 
next house she meant to visit, produced an invitation from my 
wife and daughters to pass the night with us, which, after a few 
words of apology for the trouble she gave us, and a few more of 
the honor we received, was agreed to. This gave rise to a new 
scene of preparation, rather more difficult than that before dinner. 
My wife and I were dislodged from our own apartment to make room 
for our noble guests. Our four daughters were crammed in by 
us, and slept on the floor, that their rooms might be left for the 
two ladies and four of the gentlemen who were entitled to the 
greatest degree of respect ; for the remaining two, we found beds 
at my son-in-law's. My two eldest daughters had, indeed, little 
time to sleep, being closeted the greatest part of the night with 
their right honorable visitor. My offices were turned topsy-turvy 
for the accommodation of the servants of my guests, and my own 
horses turned into the fields that theirs might occupy my stable. 

All these are hardships of their kind, Mr. Mirror, which the 
honor that accompanies them seems to me not fully to compen- 
sate ; but these are slight grievances in comparison with what I 
have to complain of as the effects of this visit. The malady of 
my two eldest daughters is not only returned with increased vio- 
lence upon them, but has now communicated itself to every other 
branch of my family. My wife, formerly a decent discreet woman, 
who liked her own way, indeed, but was a notable manager, now 
talks of this and that piece of expense as necessary to the rank of 
a gentlewoman, and has lately dropped some broad hints that a 
winter in town is necessary to the accomplishment of one. My 
two younger daughters have got the heads that formerly belonged 
to their elder sisters, to each of whom, unfortunately, the great 
lady presented a set of feathers, for which new heads were essen- 
tially requisite. 

This affectation of fashion has gone a step lower in my house- 
hold. My gardener has tied his hair behind, and stolen my flour 
to powder it, ever since he saw Mr. Papillot ; and yesterday he 
gave me warning that he should leave me next term if I did not 
take him into the house and provide another hand for the work 
in the garden. I found a great hoyden, who washes my daugh- 
ters' linen, sitting, the other afternoon, dressed in one of their cast 

fly-caps, entertaining this same oaf of a gardener and the wives 
9;) 



246 MACKENZIE. [WILLIAM IV. 

of two of my farm- servants, "with tea, forsooth ; and when I quar- 
relled with her for it, she replied that Mrs. Dimity, my Lady 

's gentlewoman, told her all the maids at had tea, and 

saw company of an afternoon. 

But I am resolved on a reformation, Mr. Mirror, and shall let 
my wife and daughters know that I will be master of my own 
house and my own expenses, and will neither be made a fool or 
a beggar, though it were after the manner of the greatest lord in 
Christendom. Yet I confess I am always for trying gentle me- 
thods first. I beg, therefore, that you will insert this in your 
next paper, and add to it some exhortations of your own to pre- 
vail on them, if possible, to give over a behavior vyhich, I think, 
under favor, is rather improper even in great folks, but is cer- 
tainly ruinous to little ones. 

I am, &c. JOHN HOMESPUN. 



THE MUSHROOM FAMILY. 

To the Autlior of the ^^Lounger.^' 

Sir : I troubled you some time ago with a letter from the 
country; now that I am come to town, I use the freedom to write 
to you again. I find the same difficulty in being happy, with 
everything to make me so, here as there. When I tell this to my 
country friends, they won't believe me. Oh, dear ! to see how the 
Miss Homes^^uns looked when they came to take leave of me the 
morning we set out for Edinburgh ! I had just put on my new rid- 
ing-habit which my brother fetched me from Loudon, and my hat, 
with two green and three white feathers ; and Miss Jessy Home- 
spun admired it so much, and when I let her put it on, she looked 
in the glass, and said, with a sigh, how charming it was ! I had 
a sad headache with it all morning, but I kept that to myself. 
'^ And do, my dear," said she, '' write sometimes to us poor mop- 
ing creatures in the country. But you won't have leisure to 
think of us, you will be so happy and so much amused." At 
that moment my brother's post coach rattled up to the door, and 
the poor Homespuns cried so when we parted ! To be sure, they 
thought that a town life, with my brother's fortune to procure all 
its amusements, must be quite delightful. Now, sir, to let you 
know how I have found it. 

I was content to be lugged about by my sister for the first week 
or two, as I knew that in a large town I should be like a fish out 
of water, as the saying is. But my sister-in-law was always put- 



1830-1837.] MACKENZIE. 247 

ting me in mind of ray ignorance : " and you country girls — and 
we who have been in London — and we who have been abroad." 
However, between ourselves, I don't find that she knows quite so 
much as she would make me believe, for it seems they can't learn 
many things in the Indies; and when she went out, she knew as 
little as myself; and as for London, she was only a fortnight there 
on her way home. 

So we have got masters that come in to give us lessons in 
French, and music, and dancing. The two first I can submit to 
very well. I could always get my tongue readily enough about 
anything, and I could play pretty well on the virginals at home, 
though my master says my fingering is not what it should be. 
But the dancing is a terrible business. My sister-in-law and I 
are put into the stocks every morning to teach us the right posi- 
tion of our feet ; and all the steps I was praised for in the country 
are now good for nothing, as the cotillon step is the only thing 
fit for people of fashion ; and so we are twisted and twirled till my 
joints ache again, and, after all, we make, I believe, a very bad 
figure at it. Indeed, I have not yet ventured to try my hand, my 
feet I mean, before anybody. But my sister-in-law, who is always 
praised for everything she does, would needs try her cotillon steps 
at the assembly, and her partner. Captain Coupee, a constant visitor 
at my brother's, told her what an admirable dancer she was ; but, 
in truth, she was out of time every instant, and I heard the people 
tittering at her country fling, as they called it. And so, in the 
same manner (which I do not think is at all fair, Mr. Lounger), 
the captain one day at our house declared she sung like an angel 
(drinking her health in a bumper of my brother's champagne), 
and yet, as I walked behind him next morning in Prince's Street, 
I overheard him saying to one of his companions that Mushroom's 
dinners were very good things, if it were not for the hore of the 
singing, and that the little Nahohina squalled like a pea-hen. 

But, no doubt, it is good manners to commend people to their 
faces, whatever one may say behind their backs. And I perceive 
they have got fashionable words for praising things, which it is 
one of my sister's lessons and mine to have at our tongues' ends, 
whether we think so or not. Such a thing, she tells me (as she 
has been taught by her great companion. Miss Grusto), must be 
charming^ another ravishing (indeed, Mr. Lounger, that is the 
word), and a third divine. As for me, I have yet got no farther 
than charming ; I can only say ravishing in a whisper; and as 
for divine, I think there is something heathenish in it, though 
indeed I have been told, since I came here, that the Command- 
ments were only meant for the country. 



248 MACKENZIE. [WILLIAM IV. 

"We havG; besides, got anotlier phrase, which is perpetually 
dinned into my ears by my sister-in-law, and that is the Ton. 
Such a person is a very good kind of person, but such another is 
more the Ton ; such a lady is handsomer, more witty, more polite, 
and more good-humored than another, but that other is much more 
the To7i. I have often asked my sister, and even my French 
master, to explain the meaning of this word Ton ; but they told 
me there was no translation for it. I think, however, I have 
found it out to be a very convenient thing for some people. ^Tis 
like what my grandfather, who was a great admirer of John Knox, 
used to tell us of popish indulgences ; folks who are the Ton may 
do anything they like without being in the wrongs and everything 
that is the To7i is right, let it be what it will. 

Alas ! sir, if the Ton would let poor people alone who don't 
wish for distinction, there would be the less to complain of; but 
the misfortune is, that one must be in the Ton whether one's 
mind gives them to it or not ; at least I am told so. We have a 
French Friseur, whom our Maitre d' Hotel Sahot recommended, 
who makes great use of this phrase. He screwed up my hair till 
I thought I should have fainted with the pain, and I did not sleep 
a wink all the night after, because he said that a hundred little 
curls were now become the Ton. He recommended a shoemaker, 
who, he said, made for all the people of the Ton, who pinched 
my toes till I could hardly walk across the room, because little 
feet were the Ton. My staymaker, another of the same set, 
brought me home a pair of stays that were but a few inches 
round at the waist, and my maid and Sahot broke three laces 
before they could get them, to meet, because small waists were the 
Ton. I sat at two dinners without being able to eat a morsel, 
because (I am ashamed to tell it, sir) my stays would not hold a 
bit. However, I would submit to the To7i no longer in that 
article, and when I got home in the evening, I took out my scis- 
sors in a passion and cut a great slash in the sides. I was re- 
solved I would not be squeezed to death for all the To7i in the 
world. 

And, moreover, the Ton is not satisfied with tearing the hair 
out of our heads, with pinching our feet, and squeezing the pit of 
our stomach, but we must have manners which, under favor, sir, 
I think very odd, and which my grandmother (I was bred up at 
my grandmother's) would have whipped me for, that she would, 
if I had ventured to show them when I was with her. I am told 
that none but a ninny would look down in the sheepish way I do; 
but that, when I meet a gentleman in our walks, I must look as 
full at him as I can, to show my eyes, and laugh, to show my 



1830-1837.] MACKENZIE. 249 

teeth (all our family have white teeth), and flourish my ratteen 
to show my shapes. And though in a room, I am to speak as 
low and mumbling as I can, to look as if I did not care whether 
I was heard or not ; yet in a public place, I am to talk as loud and 
as fast as possible, and call the men by their plain surnames, and 
tell all about our last night's parties, and a great many other things, 
Mr. Lounger, which I can't do for the heart of me ; but my sister- 
in-law comes on amazingly, as Miss Gusto says. But then she 
has been in India, and she was not brought up with my grand- 
mother. I protest, though I would be ashamed to let Miss Gusto 
know it, that often, when I am wishing to practice some of her 
lessons, I think I see my grandmother with her bunch of keys at 
her apron-string, her amber-headed stick in one hand and the 
Ladies' CalUng in the other, looking at me from under her 
spectacles with such a frown, Mr. Lounger, it frightens me quite 
out of my head. 

After all, I am apt to believe that the very great trouble and 
the many inconveniences to which we put ourselves to attain this 
distinction of the Ton, are, in a great measure, labor in vain; 
that our music, our dancing, and our good-breeding will perhaps 
be out of fashion before we have come to any degree of perfection 
in all or any of these accomplishments, for some of the fine ladies 
and fine gentlemen who visit us say that the Ton here is no Ton 
at all, for that the true and genuine Ton (like the true and genu- 
ine Milk of Roses) is only to be found in London. Nay, some of 
the finest of those fine ladies and gentlemen go a step farther, and 
inform us that the Ton of London itself is mere Twaddle, and that 
the only right Ton is to be found in Paris. I hope in goodness, 
however, that my sister, if she is determined, as she sometimes 
hints, to chase the Ton that length, will drop»me by the way, or 
rather allow me to return again to the country. Old sparrows 
(the proverb says, Mr. Lounger) are ill to tame. Not that I am 
old, neither ; but I believe I am not quite young enough to learn 
to be happy in the sort of life we lead here ; and though I try all 
I can to think it a happy one, and I am sure to say so in every 
place to which we go, yet I can't help often secretly wishing I 
were back again at my father's, where I should not be obliged to 
be happy whether I would or not. 

Your afflicted (if I may venture to say so), humble servant, 

MAEJORY MUSHROOM. 



22- 



250 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 



WALTER SCOTT, 1771—1832. 

This illustrious author, the son of Walter Scott, who was a writer to 
the Signet^ in the Scottish capital, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15(h of 
August, 1771. He received the chief portion of his school education at the 
High-school of Edinburgh, then under the care of the celebrated Dr. 
Adam ; but, during the four years that he remained there, he does not ap- 
pear to have displayed any remarkable abilities, excepting for tale-telling, 
in which he excelled. " The chief employment of my holidays" (says he, 
in the general introduction to his novels) " was to escape with a chosen 
friend, who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to 
each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise." In October, 
1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh, and left it in a year or two, 
without having added much to bis stock of classical knowledge. At the 
age of fifteen, the breaking of a blood-vessel brought on an illness, which, 
to use his own words, "threw him back on the kingdom of fiction, as if 
by a species of fatality." Being for some time forbidden to speak or move, 
he did nothing but read from morning till night ; and, by a perusal of old 
romances, old plays, and epic poetry, was unconsciously amassing mate- 
rials for his future writings. 

In his sixteenth year, he commenced studying for the bar, and became 
an apprentice to his father. In 1792, he became an advocate ; but he had 
no taste for the law, and, as his father was in affluent circumstances, he 
resolved to devote himself to literary pursuits. In 1797, he married Miss 
Margaret Carpenter, the daughter of a French refugee, and soon after took 
a house at Lasswade, on the banks of the Tweed. In 1802, appeared his 
first publication of any note, " The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," in 
two volumes, which displayed much curious and abstruse learning, and 
gained the author a considerable reputation as an historical and traditionary 
poet. In 1803, he cafne to the final resolution of quitting his profession, 
observing, "there was no great love between us at the beginning, and it 
pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther acquaintance." In 1805, he pub- 
lished "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," which was composed at the rate 
of a canto per week, and for which he obtained six hundred pounds. In 
J808, appeared his " Marmion," which he sold for one thousand pounds, 
the extraordinary success of which induced him, he says, for the first and 
last time of his life, to feel something approaching to vanity. This was 
succeeded by an edition of Dryden's works, in eighteen volumes, with notes 
historical and explanatory, and a life of the author. In 1810, he composed 
his "Lady of the Lake," which had extraordinary success, and which has 
been characterized by some as the finest specimen of his poetical genius. 

» The signet is one of the king's seals used in sealing his private letters and 
all grants signed under his hand. It is always in the custody of the Secretaries 
of State. "A writer to the Signet" is therefore one who holds an office in the 
department of State. 



1830-1837.] SCOTT. 251 

Within four years after this appeared his " Vision of Don Roderick," 
"Rokeby," and " The Lord of the Isles." These, however, did not meet 
with the success which attended his former poems. 

But, determined to continue his literary career, he resolved to try his 
powers in the composition of fictitious prose writings, and in 1814 appeared 
"Waverley, or 'tis Sixty Years Since," a tale of the rebellion of 1745. 
Though it had not the name of its distinguished author attached to it, it 
soon rose to great popularity, and he now had fairly entered upon the field 
in which he earned triumphs even more splendid than he had gained in the 
domain of poetry. " Waverley" was followed within a few years by that 
brilliant series of prose fictions which made the " Great Unknown," as he 
was called, the wonder of the age. From 1815 to 1819 appeared, success- 
ively, "Guy Mannering," "The Antiquary," and the first series of the 
" Tales of my Landlord," containing the "Black Dwarf" and " Old Mor- 
tality ;" " Rob Roy," and the second series of the " Tales of my Landlord," 
containing " The Heart of Mid Lothian ;" and the third series, containing 
" The Bride of Lammermoor" and " A Legend of Montrose." In 1821,' 
appeared "Kenilworth," which was succeeded, successively, by "The 
Pirate," "The Fortunes of Nigel," " Peveril of the Peak," " Quentin 
Durward," " Tales of the Crusaders," &c. 

The great success of all these works enabled Scott to carry out the long- 
cherished object of his wishes — to possess a large baronial estate. In 
1811, he purchased one hundred acres of land on the banks of the Tweed, 
near Melrose, for four thousand pounds, " and the interesting and now im- 
mortal name of Abbotsford was substituted for the very ordinary one of 
Cartley Hole.'" Other purchases of land followed, to a great extent, which, 
together with the noble mansion, cost more than fifty thousand pounds. In 
this princely mansion, the poet received for years, and entertained with 
bounteous hospitality, innumerable visitors — princes, peers, and poets — ■ 
men of all ranks and grades. In the mean time, he entered into partnership 
with his old school-fellow James Ballantyne, then rising into extensive 
business as a printer, in Edinburgh. The copartnership was kept a secret, 
and to all appearance the house of Ballantyne & Co. was doing a most 
prosperous business. Little did he dream what sad reverses awaited him — 
how soon his all was to be swept away — 

"Regardless of the sweeping whirlyvind's sway, 
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey." ». 

In the great commercial distresses of 1825 and 182G, his publishers, 
Constable & Co., stopped payment, and the failure of the firm of Ballan- 
tyne, for a very large sum, followed instantly, and thus these two firms 
involved Scott to the amount of more than one hundred thousand pounds. 

1 In 1820, say his biographers, " the honor of the baronetcy was conferred 
upon him by George IV.." just as if he did not honor the " baroiietcy" far more 
than the '• baronetcy" honored him. Such men as John Milton, Isaac Newton, 
William Shakspeare, and Waher Scott need no unmeaning titles to make them 
greater. Scott, however, was pleased with it. To have a title, and a large 
landed estate, was his great ambition. 



252 " SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 

But these immense losses did not dishearten him. If he had been impru- 
dent in forming such connections, most nobly and courageously did he come 
forward, and insisted that he would not be dealt with as an ordinary bank- 
rupt, and pledged himself that the labor of his future life should be unre- 
mittingly devoted to the discharge of his debts. ^ He did more than fulfil 
his noble promise ; for the gigantic toil to which, during years after this, 
he submitted, was the immediate cause that shortened his life. His 
self-sacrifice realized for his creditors, between January, 1826, and January, 
1828, the surprising sum of forty thousand pounds ; and soon after his death 
the principal of the whole Ballantyne debt was paid up by his executors. 
Language fails to express the honor and glory of such an act of moral he- 
roism and severe integrity. It has encircled the brow of Sir Walter Scott 
vi^ith greener laurels than all the works of poetry and fiction he ever wrote. ^ 
In 1826, our author removed from Abbotsford to Edinburgh, and entered 
vigorously upon his renewed labors. " Woodstock," the first and second 
series of the " Chronicles of the Canongate," "Anne of Geierstein," the 
first, second, and third series of " Tales of my Grandfather," the " Life of 
Napoleon," in nine volumes, octavo, followed in rapid succession. But 
these great labors were too much for him. In 1830, he had an attack of 
paralysis; yet he continued to write several hours every day. In April, 
1831, he suffered a still more severe attack, and he was prevailed upon to 
undertake a foreign tour. He sailed for Malta and Naples, and resided at 
the latter place from December, 1831, to the following April. The next 
month he set his face towards home, and reached London on the 13th of 

* "It is very hard," was his observation to a friend on the occasion, " thus 
to lose all the labors of a lifetime, and be made a poor man at last, when I 
ought to have been otherwise. But if God grant me health and strength for 
a few years longer, I have no doubt that I shall redeem it all." 

^ "English literature presents two memorable and striking events, which 
have never been paralleled in any other nation. The first is Milton , advanced 
in years, blind, and in misfortune, entering upon the composition of a great 
epic that w^as to determine his future fame, and hazard theglorj^of his country 
in competition wath what had been achieved in the classic ages of antiquity. 
The counterpart to this noble picture is Walter Scott, at nearly the same age, 
his private affairs in ruin, undertaking to liquidate, by intellectual labors alone, 
a debt of one hundred and seventeen thousand pounds. Both tasks may be 
classed with the moral sublime of life. Glory, pure and unsullied, was the 
ruling aim and motive of Milton; honor and integrity formed the incentives to 
Scott. Neither shrunk from the steady prosecution of his gigantic, self-imposed 
labor. But years rolled on, seasons returned and passed away, amidst public 
cares and private calamity, and the pressure of increasing infirmities, ere the 
seed sown amidst clouds and storms was white in the field. In six years 
Milton had realized the object of his hopes and prayers by the completion of 
' Paradise Lost.' His task w^as done; the field of glory was gained; he held 
in his hand his passport to immortality. In six years Scott had nearly reached 
the goal of his ambition. He had ranged the wide fields of romance, and the 
public had liberally rewarded their illustrious favorite. The ultimate prize 
w^as within view, and the world cheered him on, eagerly anticipating his tri- 
umph ; but the victor sank exhausted on the course. He had spent his life in 
the struggle. The strong man was bowed down, and his living honor, genms, 
and integrity w^ere extinguished by delirium and death." 

Chambers' Cyclopedia. 



1830-1837.] SCOTT. 253 

June. He was conveyed to Abbotsford, the perfect wreck in body and 
mind of what he once was. " He lingered on for some time, listening oc- 
casionally to passages read to him from the Bible, and from his favorite 
author Crabbe. But the contest was soon to be over. About half-past one, 
P.M.," says Mr. Lockhart, "on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter 
breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful 
day — so warm that every window was wide open — and so perfectly still, 
that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of 
the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around his 
bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes." 

It now remains to speak of the character of the writings of this prolific 
and gifted genius. And here our own convictions of truth compel us to 
say that their moral tone is not all we could wish. Of his poetry, even 
a most partial biographer' admits, "If its moral tone is not high, it must be 
at least admitted that it is uniformly inoffensive." This last we cannot 
admit. Much of it is "offensive" to us, because it delights in scenes of 
carnage and blood ; and this same biographer remarks that, "very few in 
any age or country have portrayed with such admirable force and fire the 
soldier's thirst for battle, and the headlong fury of the field of slaughter." 
Now the question is, is not such poetry destined to die ? As the world 
advances in true humanity, as war is more and more looked upon as legalized 
murder, will not such poetry as tends to excite all the most hateful passions 
of the human breast be less and less esteemed ! We think it will. Even 
the genius of a Scott cannot interest the world in the border wars of rival 
nations, nor in the fierce encounters of hostile clans, nor make the "spirit 
of chivalry" respectable in the minds of the world generally, nor otherwise 
than hateful to the Christian; a "spirit" which, as the great Dr. Arnold 
justly remarked, "predominantly deserved the name of Antichrist, and is 
the more detestable for the very guise of archangel ruined." But his poetry, 
merely as poetry, without considering its moral bearing, takes by no means 
the highest rank. It skims over the surface— pleases us with its graphic 
descriptions — animates us by its lively measure — but goes not down into 
the depths of the soul, to call forth its deepest feelings or awaken its 
strongest sympathies. 

His prose works have given him a higher rank. But it is only in the cha- 
racter of a novelist that his name will go down to posterity, as the inventor 
of a new class of fictitious writings. His Life of Napoleon is a decided fail- 
ure, not displaying the accurate research of the historian, nor the profundity 
of the philosopher, which was expected from one of such established fame. 
That his romances awaken a deep interest in the reader, none will deny : 
but they are characterized by two things that detract much from their merit, 
and which will be felt more as society advances in humanity. One is the 
ridicule cast, in a number of his novels, upon a class of men as devotedly 
religious as any that ever lived— the Scotch Covenanters of the last century : 
another is the tone of aristocratic hauteur that pervades them all. Though 

» «' Encyclopaedia Britannica," vol. xix. p. 777. 



254 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 

he draws faithful pictures of humble life, and seems to esteem their virtues, 
yet he considers them merely as the dependents of other men, and is silent 
on every other relation they can be supposed to hold. " He seems," says 
a discriminating critic, " to have never conceived the idea of a manly cha- 
racter in middle or humble life ; and, in his novels, where an individual of 
these classes is introduced, he is never invested whh any virtues, unless 
obedience, or even servihty to superiors, be of the number." 



THE LAST MINSTREL.^ 

The way was long, the wind was cold, 

The minstrel was infirm and old ; 

His withered cheek and tresses gray 

Seemed to have known a better day; 

The harp, his sole remaining joy, 

Was carried by an orphan boy. 

The last of all the bards was he 

Who sung of Border chivalry ; 

For, well-a-day ! their date was fled ; 

His tuneful brethren all were dead ; 

And he, neglected and oppressed, 

Wished to be with them, and at rest. 

No more on prancing palfry borne, 

He carolled, light as lark at morn; 

No longer courted and caressed, 

High placed in hall a welcome guest, 

He poured to lord and lady gay 

The unpremeditated lay ; 

Old times were changed, old manners gone ; 

A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne; 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had called his harmless art a crime. 

A wandering harper, scorned and poor, 

He begged his bread from door to door, 

And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 

The harp a king had loved to hear. 

He pass'd where Newark's^ stately tower 
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: 

' The " Lay of the Last Minstrgl" consists of a tale in verse, supposed to be 
recited by a wandering minstrel who took refuge in the castle of Anne, 
Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of 
Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who 
was beheaded in 1685. 

^ This is a massive square tower, now unroofed and ruinous, surrounded by 
an outward wall, defended by round flanking turrets. It is most beautifully 
situated, about three miles from Selkirk, upon the banks of the iii'arrow, a 
fierce and precipitous stream which unites with the Ettricke about a mile 
beneath the castle. It was built by James II. 



1830-1837.] SCOTT. 255 

The minstrel gazed with wishful eye — 
No humbler resting-place was nigh. 
With hesitating step at last 
The embattled portal arch he pass'd, 
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
Had oft roU'd back the tide of war, 
But never closed the iron door 
Against the desolate and poor. 
The duchess marked his weary pace, 
His timid mien, and reverend face, 
And bade her page the menials tell 
That they should tend the old man well : 
For she had known adversity, 
Though born in such a high degree; 
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb! 

When kindness had his wants supplied. 
And the old man was gratified. 
Began to rise his minstrel pride: 
And he began to talk anon. 
Of good Earl Francis,' dead and gone, 
And of Earl Walter,^ rest him, God! 
A braver ne'er to battle rode; 
And how full many a tale he knew 
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch; 
And would the noble duchess deign 
To listen to an old man's strain, 
Though stift' his hand, his voice though weak, 
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, 
That, if she loved the harp to hear, 
He could make music to her ear. 

The humble boon was soon obtain'd ; 
The aged minstrel audience gain'd. 
But, when he reach'd the room of state, 
Where she, with all her ladies, sate. 
Perchance he wish'd his boon denied: 
For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease 
Which marks security to please ; 
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain. 
Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
He tried to tune his harp in vain ! 
The pitying duchess praised its chime, 
And gave him heart, and gave him time, 
Till every string's according glee 
Was blended into harmony. 

* Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleuch, father of the duchess. 
2 Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather of the duchess, and a celebrated 
warrior. 



256 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 

And then, he said, he would full fain 

He could recall an ancient strain 

He never thought to sing again. 

It was not framed for village churls, 

But for high dames and mighty earls ; 

He had play'd it to' King Charles the Good, 

When he kept court in Holyrood; 

And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try 

The long-forgotten melody. 

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, 

And an uncertain warbling made. 

And oft he shook his hoary head. 

But when he cavight the measure wild. 

The old man raised his face, and smiled ; 

And lighten'd up his faded eye 

With all a poet's ecstasy ! 

In varying cadence, soft or strong, 

He swept the sounding chords along: 

The present scene, the future lot. 

His toils, his wants, were all forgot: 

Cold diffidence, and age's frost. 

In the full tide of song were lost; 

Each blank, in faithless memory void. 

The poet's glowing thought supplied; 

And, while his harp responsive rung, 

'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. 



DESCRIPTION OF MELROSE ABBEY. 

If thou woukVst view fair Melrose aright, 

Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 

For the gay beams of lightsome day 

Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 

When the broken arches are black in night, 

And each shafted oriel glimmers white; 

When the cold light's uncertain shower 

Streams on the ruined central tower; 

When buttress and buttress, alternately, 

Seem framed of ebon and ivory; 

When silver edges the imagery 

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and ilie; 

When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave. 

Then go — but go alone the while — 

Then view St. David's ruined pile; 

And, home returning, soothly swear, 

Was never scene so sad and fair! 



1830-1837.] sooTT. 257 



LOVE OF COUNTRY. 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land 1 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go mark him well : 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name. 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung. 

O Caledonia! stern and wild, 
Meet nurse for a poetic child! 
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
Land of the mountain and the flood, 
Land of my sires! what mortal hand 
Can e'er untie the filial band 
That knits me to thy rugged strand! 
Still as I view each well-known scene. 
Think what is now, and what hath been, 
Seems as to me, of all bereft. 
Sole friends thy woods and streams were left j 
And thus I love them better still, 
Even in extremity of ill. 
By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 
Though none should guide my feeble way; 
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
Although it chill my withered cheek ; 
Still lay my head by Teviot stone, 
Though there, forgotten and alone. 
The bard may draw his parting groan. 



LOCK KATRINE. 

And now, to issue from the glen. 

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, 

Unless he climb, with footing nice, 

A far projecting precipice. 

The broom's tough roots his ladder made, 

The hazel saplings lent their aid ; 

And thus an airy point he won. 

Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 

23 



258 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 

One burnished sheet of living gold, 

Lock Katrine lay beneath him rolled ; 

In all her length far-winding lay, 

With promontory, creek, and bay, 

And islands that, empurpled bright, 

Floated amid the livelier light; 

And mountains, that like giants stand 

To sentinel enchanted land. 

High on the south, huge Ben-Venue 

Down to the lake in masses threw 

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confus'dly hurl'd, 

The fragments of an earlier world ; 

A wildering forest feather'd o'er 

His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, 

While on the north, through middle air, 

Ben-An heaved high his forehead bare. 



TIME. 

'• The window of a turret, which projected at an angle with the wall, and 
thus came to be very near Lovel's apartment, was half open, and from that 
quarter he heard again the same music which had probably broken short his 
dream. With its visionary character it had lost much of its charms — it was 
now nothing more than an air on the harpsichord, tolerably well performed — 
such is the caprice of imagination as affecting the fine arts. A female voice 
sung, with some taste and great simplicity, something between a song and a 
hymn, in words to the following effect :" — 

" Why sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall. 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray ? 
Dost thou its former pride recall, 
Or ponder how it pass'd away?" — 

*' Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried ; 
" So long enjoy'd, so oft misused — 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride. 
Desired, neglected, and accused ! 

"Before my breath, like blazing flax, 
Man and his marvels pass away: 
And changing erfipires wane and wax, 
Are founded, flourish, and decay, 

*' Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — 
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, 
And measureless thy joy or grief. 

When Time and thou shalt part for ever." 



Rebecca's hymn. 

'I It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if it could be called such, 
had taken place, that a low knock was heard at the door of Rebecca's prison 



1830-1837.] SCOTT. 259 

chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then engaged in the evening 
prayer recommended by her religion, and which concluded with a hymn, which 
we have ventured thus to translate into English :" — 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of bondage came, 
Her fathers' God before her moved, 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonish'd lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow; 
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands 

Return'd the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, 
And Ziou's daughters pour'd their lays. 

With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
No portents now our foes amaze. 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone: 
Our fathers would not know thy ways, 

And thou hast left them to their own. 

But present still, though now unseen! 

When brightly shines the prosperous day, 
Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night, 
Be thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light! 

Our harps we left by burning streams, 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams. 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 
But thou hast said, The blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams I will not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. 



MEG MERRILIES SONG AT THE BIRTH OF THE INFANT. 

" She sat upon a broken corner-stone in the angle of a paved apartment, 
part of which she had swept clean to afford a smooth space for the evolutions 
of her spindle. A strong sunbeam, through a lofty and narrow window, fell 
upon her wild dress and features, and afforded her light for her occupation; 
the rest of the apartment was very gloomy. Equipped in a habit which mingled 
the national dress of the Scottish common people with something of an eastern 
costume, she spun a thread drawn from wool of three different colors, black, 
white, and gray, by assistance of those ancient implements of housewifery 
now almost banished from the land, the distaff and spindle. As she spun, she 
sung what seemed to be a charm. Mannering, after in vain attempting to make 
himself master of the exact words of her song, afterwards attempted the foi 



260 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 

lowing paraphrase of what, from a few intelligible phrases, he concluded to be 
its purport:" — 

Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
Hope and fear, and jjeace and strife, 
In the thread of human life. 

While the mystic twist is spinning, 
And the infant's life beginning. 
Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
Lo, what varied shapes attending ! 

Passions wild, and follies vain. 
Pleasure soon exchanged for pain ; 
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear, 
In the magic dance appear. 

Now they wax, and now they dwindle, 
Whirling with the whirling spindle. 
Twist ye, twine ye ! even so. 
Mingle human bliss and woe. 



ELLEN — THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 

Eut scarce again his horn he wound, 

When lo! forth starting at the sound, 

From underneath an aged oak. 

That slanted from the islet rock, 

A damsel, guider of its way, 

A little skiff shot to the bay, 

That round the promontory steep, 

Led its deep line in graceful sweep. 

Eddying, in almost viewless wave. 

The weeping willow twig to lave, 

And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, 

The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 

The boat had touch 'd this silver strand. 

Just as the hunter left his stand. 

And stood conceal'd amid the brake. 

To view this Lady of the Lake. 

The maiden paused, as if again 

She thought to catch the distant strain. 

With head up-raised, and look intent. 

And eye and ear attentive bent. 

And locks flung back, and lips apart. 

Like monument of Grecian art. 

In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, 

The guardian Naiad of the strand. 

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
Of finer form, or lovelier face! 



1830-1837.] SCOTT. 261 

What though the sun, with ardent frown, 
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown? 
The sportive toil, which, short and light, 
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, 
Served too in hastier swell to show 
Short glimpses of a breast of snow: 
What though no rule of courtly grace 
To measured mood had train'd her pace ? 
A foot more ligVit, a step more true. 
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew ; 
E'en the slight harebell raised its head. 
Elastic from her airy tread : 
What though upon her speech there hung 
The accents of the mountain tongue — 
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, 
The list'ner held his breath to hear ! 

A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid; 
Her satin snood, her silken plaid. 
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. 
And seldom was a snood amid 
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 
Whose glossy black to shame might bring 
The plumage of the raven's wing ; 
And seldom o'er a breast so fair 
Mantled a plaid with modest care; 
And never brooch the folds combined 
Above a heart more good and kind. 
Her kindness and her worth to spy, 
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye; 
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, 
Gives back the shaggy banks more true, 
Than every free-born glance confess'd 
The guileless movements of her breast; 
Whether joy danced In her dark eye, 
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh, 
Or filial love was glowing there. 
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer, 
Or tale of injury call'd forth 
The indignant spirit of the North. 
One only passion unreveal'd 
With maiden pride the maid conceal'd. 
Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 
O need I tell that passion's name ! 



A MORNING IN THE HIGHLANDS. — DEATH OF MORRIS.* 

I shall never forget the delightful sensation with which I 
exchanged the dark, smoky, smothering atmosphere of the High- 

' At the time the celebrated Highland chieftain, Rob Roy Mac Gregor, was 
taken prisoner, Morris had been sent as a hostage for his personal safety, 

23* 



262 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 

land hut, in which we had passed the night so uncomfortably, for 
the refreshing fragrance of the morning air, and the glorious beams 
of the rising sun, which, from a tabernacle of purple and golden 
clouds, were darted full on such a scene of natural romance and 
beauty as had never before greeted my eyes. To the left lay the 
valley, down which the Forth wandered on its easterly course, sur- 
rounding the beautiful detached hill, with all its garland of woods. 
On the right, amid a profusion of thickets, knolls, and crags, lay 
the bed of a broad mountain lake, lightly curled into tiny waves 
by the breath of the morning breeze, each glittering in its course 
under the influence of the sunbeams. High hills, rocks, and 
banks, waving with natural forests of birch and oak, formed the 
borders of this enchanting sheet of water ; and, as their leaves 
rustled to the wind and twinkled in the sun, gave to the depth of 
solitude a sort of life and vivacity. Man alone seemed to be 
placed in a state of inferiority, in a scene where all the ordinary 
features of nature were raised and exalted. * * * 

It was under the burning influence of revenge that the wife of 
MacGregor commanded that the hostage, exchanged for her hus- 
band's safety, should be brought into her presence. I believe 
her sons had kept this unfortunate wretch out of her sight, for 
fear of the consequences; but if it was so, their humane precaution 
only postponed his fate. They dragged forward, at her summons, 
a wretch, already half dead with terror, in whose agonized features 
I recognized, to my horror and astonishment, my old acquaintance 
Morris. 

He fell prostrate before the female chief, with an efibrt to clasp 
her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touch had been 
pollution, so that all he could do* in token of the extremity of his 
humiliation, was to kiss the hem of her plaid. I never heard 
entreaties for life poured forth with such agony of spirit. The 
ecstasy of fear was such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, as 
on ordinary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent, and, with 
cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes that 
seemed to be taking their last look of all mortal objects, he pro- 
tested, with the deepest oaths, his total ignorance of any design 
on the life of Rob Roy, whom he swore he loved and honored as 
his own soul. In the inconsistency of his terror, he said he was 
but the agent of others, and he muttered the name of Rashleigh. 
He prayed but for life — for life he would give all he had in the 
world — it was but life he asked — life, if it were to be prolonged 

which, being violated, excited the wrath so powerfully described in thjs 
extract. 



1830-1837.] SCOTT. 263 

under tortures and privations ; lie asked only breath, though it 
should be drawn in the damps of the lowest caverns of their hills. 
It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and con- 
tempt with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this wretched 
petitioner for the poor boon of existence. 

^^ I could have bid you live," she said, ^^ had life been to you 
the same weary and wasting burden that it is to me — that it is to 
every noble and generous mind. But you — wretch ! you could 
creep through the world unaffected by its various disgraces, its 
ineffable miseries, its constantly accumulating masses of crime and 
sorrow — you could live and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded 
are betrayed — while nameless and birthless villains tread on the 
neck of the brave and long-descended — you could enjoy yourself, 
like a butcher's dog in the shambles, battening on garbage, while 
the slaughter of the brave went on around you ! This enjoyment 
you shall not live to partake of; you shall die, base dog, and that 
before yon cloud has passed over the sun." 

She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, two of 
whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hurried him to the 
brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. He set up the most 
piercing and dreadful cries that fear ever uttered — I may well 
term them dreadful, for they haunted my sleep for years after- 
wards. As the murderers, or executioners, call them as you will, 
dragged him along, he recognized me even in that moment of hor- 
ror, and exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him 
utter, " 0, Mr. Osbaldistone, save me ! — save me !" 

I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although 
in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I did attempt to 
speak in his behalf, but, as might have been expected, my inter- 
ference was sternly disregarded. The victim was held fast by 
some, while others, binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it 
round his neck, and others again eagerly stripped him of some 
part of his dress. Half naked, and thus manacled, they hurried 
him into the lake, there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last 
death-shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, 
however, the yell of mortal agony was distinctly heard. The 
heavy burden splashed in the dark-blue waters of the lake, and the 
Highlanders, with their poleaxes and swords, watched an instant, 
to guard, lest, extricating himself from the load to which he was 
attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the 
knot had been securely bound ; the victim sunk without effort; 
the waters, which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, 
and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly was 
forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. 



264 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 



THE DEPARTURE OF THE GYPSIES FROM ELLANGOWAN. 

It was in a hollow way, near the top of a steep ascent upon the 
verge of the EUangowan estate, that Mr. Bertram met the gypsy 
procession. Four or five men formed the advanced guard, wrapped 
in long, loose great coats, that hid their tall slender figures, as the 
large slouched hats, drawn over their brows, concealed their wild 
features, dark eyes, and swarthy faces. Two of them carried long 
fowling-pieces, one wore a broadsword without a sheath, and all 
bad the Highland dirk, though they did not wear that weapon 
openly or ostentatiously. 

Behind them followed the train of laden asses and small carts, 
or tumblers, as they were called in that country, on which were 
laid the decrepit and the helpless, the aged and infant part of 
the exiled community. The women in their red cloaks and straw 
hats, the elder children with bare heads and bare feet, and almost 
naked bodies, had the immediate care of the little caravan. The 
road was narrow, running between two broken banks of sand, 
and Mr. Bertram's servant rode forward, smacking his whip with 
an air of authority, and motioning to their drivers to allow free 
passage to their betters. 

His signal was unattended to. He then called to the men who 
lounged idly on before, " Stand to your beasts' heads, and make 
room for the laird to pass.'' " He shall have his share of the 
road," answered a male gypsy from under his slouched and large- 
brimmed hat, and without raising his face, ^' and he shall have 
no more; the highway is as free to our cuddies as to his geldings." 

The tone of the man being sulky, and even menacing, Mr. 
Bertram thought it best to put his dignity into his pocket, and 
pass by the procession quietly, upon such space as they chose to 
leave for his accommodation, which was narrow enough. To 
cover with an appearance of indifference his feeling of the want 
of respect with which he was treated, he addressed one of the men 
as he passed him, without any show of greeting, salute, or recog- 
nition — " Giles Baillie," he said, " have you heard that your son 
G-abriel is well V (the question respecting the young man who 
had been pressed.) 

" If I had heard otherwise," said the old man, looking up with 
a stern and menacing countenance, " you should have heard it 
too." And he plodded his way, tarrying no further question. 
When the laird had pressed onward with difficulty among a crowd 
of familiar faces — in which he now only read hatred and contempt, 



1830-1837.] SCOTT. 265 

but which had on all former occasions marked his approach with 
the reverence due to that of a superior being — and had got clear 
of the throng, he could not help turning his horse and looking 
back to mark the progress of the march. The group would have 
been an excellent subject for the pencil of Colotte. The van had 
already reached a small and stunted thicket, which was at the 
bottom of the hill, and which gradually hid the line of march 
until the last stragglers disappeared. 

His sensations were bitter enough. The race, it is true, which 
he had thus summarily dismissed from their ancient place of 
refuge, was idle and vicious; but had he endeavored to render 
them otherwise ? They were not more irregular characters now 
than they had been while they were admitted to consider them- 
selves as a sort of subordinate dependents of his family, and 
ought the circumstance of his becoming a magistrate to have made 
at once such a change in his conduct towards them ? Some means 
of reformation ought at least to have been tried, before sending 
seven families at once upon the wide world, and depriving them 
of a degree of countenance which withheld them at least from 
atrocious guilt. 

There was also a natural yearning of heart upon parting with 
so many known and familiar faces; and to this feeling Godfrey 
Bertram was peculiarly accessible, from the limited qualities of 
his mind, which sought its principal amusements among the petty 
objects around him. 

As he was about to turn his horse's head to pursue his journey, 
Meg Merrilies, who had lagged behind the troops, unexpectedly 
presented herself. She was standing upon one of those high 
banks, which, as we before noticed, overhung the road, so that 
she was placed considerably higher than Ellangowan, even though 
he was on horseback, and her tall figure, relieved against the 
clear blue sky, seemed almost of supernatural height. We have 
noticed that there was in her general attire, or rather in her mode 
of adjusting it, somewhat of a foreign costume, artfully adopted, 
perhaps, for the purpose of adding to the effect of her spells and 
predictions, or perhaps from some traditional notions respecting 
the dress of her ancestors. On this occasion, she had a large 
piece of red cotton cloth rolled about her head in the form of a 
turban, from beneath which her dark eyes flashed with uncommon 
lustre. 

Her long and tangled black hair fell in elf locks from the folds 
of this singular head gear. Her attitude was that of a sibyl in 
frenzy, as she stretched out, in her right hand, a sapling bough 
which seemed just pulled. ^^ I'll be sworn," said the groom, 



266 SCOTT. [WILLIAM IV. 

" she has been cutting the young ashes in the Dukit Park." 
The laird made no answer, but continued to look at the figure 
which was thus perched above his path. 

" Ride your ways/' said the gypsy, ^' ride your ways, Laird of 
Ellangowan — ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram ! This day have 
ye quenched seven smoking hearths ; see if the fire in your ain 
parlor burn the blyther for that ! Ye have riven the thack off 
seven cottar houses ] look if your ain roof-tree stand the faster ! 
Ye may stable your stirks in the shealings at Derncleugh ; see 
that the hare does not couch on the hearthstane at Ellangowan ! 
Ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram ! what do ye glowr after our 
folk for ? There's thirty hearts there that wad hae wanted bread 
ere ye had wanted sunkets and spent their life-blood ere ye had 
scratched your finger ; yes, there's thirty yonder, from the auld 
wife of an hundred to the babe that was born last week, that ye hae 
turned out o' their bits o' bields to sleep with the toad and the black- 
cock in the muirs ! Ride your ways, Ellangowan ! Our bairns are 
hinging at our weary backs; look that your braw cradle at hame 
be the fairer spread up ! Not that I am wishing ill to little 
Harry, or to the babe that's yet to be born — God forbid, and 
make them kind to the poor, and better folk than their father ! 
And now, ride e'en your ways, for these are the last words ye'll 
ever hear Meg Merrilies speak, and this is the last reise that I'll 
ever cut in the bonny woods of Ellangowan." 

So saying, she broke the sapling she held in her hand, and 
flung it into the road. Margaret of Anjou, bestowing on her tri- 
umphant foes her keen-edged malediction, could not have turned 
from them with a gesture more proudly contemptuous. The laird 
was clearing his voice to speak, and thrusting his hand into his 
pocket to find half a crown ', the gypsy waited neither for his re- 
ply nor his donation, but strode down the hill to overtake the 
caravan. 

Ellangowan rode pensively home, and it was remarkable that 
he did not mention this interview to any of his family. The 
groom was not so reserved ; he told the story at great length to a 
full audience in the kitchen, and concluded by swearing that " if 
ever the devil spoke by the mouth of a woman, he had spoken by 
that of Meg Merrilies that blessed day." 



1830-1837.] BUTLER. ^. 267 



CHARLES BUTLER, 1750—1832. 

Charles Butler was born in London, of a Roman Catholic family, in 
1750. After receiving the rudiments of his education at a school of that 
denomination at Hammersmith,^ he was sent to the English college at 
Douay,2 where, according to his own account, the scholars were excellently 
well instructed in their religion, and the classics were well taught; "but 
writing, arithmetic, and geography were little thought of, and modern 
history was scarcely mentioned;" the object being rather to make the 
scholars good Papists than to be useful and active citizens of general 
society. From Douay Mr. Butler removed to Lincoln's Inn, where he 
entered upon the study of the law, and ultimately practised as a convey- 
ancer. His legal publications were numerous, and gave him much reputa- 
tion as a lawyer. In 1797 appeared his "Horse Biblic®," among the most 
popular of his works. The first part contains an historical and literary 
account of the original text, early vel-sions, and printed editions of the Old 
and New Testaments ; and the second a similar account of the sacred 
books of the Mohammedans, Persians, &c. It is free from any party, 
theological spirit, and it speedily ran through five editions. His writings in 
behalf of the Papal Church are numerous and valuable, and involved him in 
occasional controversy with some eminent men of letters. But the work 
by which he is now most known to general readers is his " Reminiscences,' ' 
the first volume of which was published in 1822, and the second in 1827. 
It is a history of his literary life, and contains some very interesting details, 
and pleasing sketches of distinguished men; and from it the following 
extracts are selected. Mr. Butler died in London, June 2d, 1832. 



LORD CHATHAM. HIS ELOQUENCE. 

Of those by whom Lord North was preceded none, probably, 
except Lord Chatham, will be remembered by posterity ; but the 
nature of the eloquence of this extraordinary man, it is extremely 
difficult to describe. 

No person in his external appearance was ever more bountifully 
gifted by nature for an orator. In his look and his gesture, grace 
and dignity were combined, but dignity presided; the "terrors of 
his beak, the lightnings of his eye," were insufferable. His voice 
was both full and clear; his lowest whisper was distinctly heard; 
his middle tones were sweet, rich, and beautifully varied. When 
he elevated his voice to its highest pitch, the house was completely 

' Four miles west of London. 

2 The Roman Catholic College m the north of France. 



268 BUTLER. [WILLIAM IV. 

filled with the volume of the sound. The effect was awful, except 
when he wished to cheer or animate ; he then had spirit-stirring 
notes, which were perfectly irresistible. He frequently rose, on 
a sudden, from a very low to a very high key, but it seemed to 
be without effort. His diction was remarkably simple ; but words 
were never chosen with greater care. He mentioned to a friend 
that he had perused some of Dr. Barrow's Sermons so often as 
to know them by heart. 

His sentiments, too, were apparently simple; but sentiments 
were never adopted or uttered with greater skill. He was often 
familiar and even playful; but it was the familiarity and playful- 
ness of condescension — the lion that dandled with the kid. The 
terrible^ however, was his peculiar power. — Then the whole House 
sunk before him. — Still he was dignified; and wonderful as was 
his eloquence, it was attended with this most important effect, 
that it impressed every hearer with a conviction that there was 
something in him even finer than his words; that the man was 
infinitely greater than the orator. No impression of this kind 
was made by the eloquence of his son, or his son's antagonist. 

Still, with the great man — for great he certainly was — manner 
did much. One of the fairest specimens which we possess of his 
lordship's oratory is his speech, in 1776, for the repeal of the 
Stamp Act. 

Most, perhaps, who read the report of this speech in " Almon's 
Register," will wonder at the effect which it is known to have 
produced on the hearers; yet the report is tolerably exact, and 
exhibits, although faintly, its leading features. But they should 
have seen the look of ineffable contempt with which he surveyed 
the late Mr. G-renville, who sat within one of him, and should 
have heard him say with that look — "As to the late ministry, 
every capital measure they have taken has been entirely wrong." 
They should also have beheld him, when, addressing himself to 
Mr. Grenville's successors, he said — "As to the present gentle- 
men — those, at least, whom I have in my eye" — (looking at the 
bench on which Mr. Conway sat) — "I have no objection; I have 
never been made a sacrifice by any of them. Some of them have 
done me the honor to ask my poor opinion before they would 
engage to repeal the act : they will do me the justice to own, I 
did advise them to engage to do it; but notwithstanding — (for I 
love to be explicit) — I cannot give them my confidence. Pardon 
me, gentlemen" — (bowing to them) — confidence is a plant of slow 
growth." Those who remember the air of condescending pro- 
tection with which the bow was made, and the look given, when 
he spoke these words, will recollect how much they themselves, 



1830-1837.] BUTLER. 269 

at the moment, were both delighted and awed, and what they 
themselves then conceived of the immeasurable superiority of the 
orator over every human being that surrounded him. In the 
passages which we have cited, there is nothing which an ordinary 
speaker might not have said ; it was the manner ^ and the manner 
onli/, which produced the effect. 

MR. FOX AND MR. PITT. 

On his first separation from the ministry, Mr. Fox assumed 
the character of a Whig, 

Almost the whole of his political life was spent in opposition 
to his majesty's ministers. In vehemence and power of argument 
he resembled Demosthenes; but there the resemblance ended. 
He possessed a strain of ridicule and wit which nature denied to 
the Athenian ; and it was the more powerful, as it always appeared 
to be blended with argument, and to result from it. To the per- 
fect composition which so eminently distinguishes the speeches of 
Demosthenes, he had no pretence. He was heedless of method : 
having the complete command of good words, he never sought for 
better; if those which occurred expressed his meaning clearly 
and forcibly, he paid little attention to their arrangement or 
harmony. 

The moment of his grandeur was when, after he had stated 
the argument of his adversary, with much greater strength than 
his adversary had done, and with much greater than any of his 
hearers thought possible, he seized it with the strength of a giant, 
and tore and trampled on it to destruction. If, at this moment, 
he had possessed the power of the Athenian over the passions or 
the imaginations of his hearers, he might have disposed of the 
House at his pleasure ; but this was denied to him ; and, on this 
account, his speeches fell very short of the effect which other- 
wise they must have produced. 

It is difficult to decide on the comparative merit of him and 
Mr. Pitt. The latter had not the vehement reasoning or argu- 
mentative ridicule of Mr. Fox; but he had more splendor, more 
imagery, and much more method and discretion. His long, lofty, 
and reverential panegyrics of the British Constitution, his eloquent 
vituperations of those whom he described as advocating the demo- 
cratic spirit, then let loose on the inhabitants of the earth, and 
his solemn adjuration of the House to defend, and to assist him 
in defending, their all against it, were, in the highest degree, both 
24 



270 BUTLER. [WILLIAM IV. 

imposing and conciliating. In addition, he had the command of 
bitter, contemptuous sarcasm, which tortured to madness. This 
he could expand or compress at pleasure : even in one member of 
a sentence, he could inflict a wound that was never healed. 

Mr. Fox had a captivating earnestness of tone and manner; 
Mr. Pitt was more dignified than earnest. The action of Mr. 
Fox was easy and graceful; Mr. Pitt's cannot be praised. It 
was an observation of the reporters in the gallery, that it required 
great exertion to follow Mr. Fox while he was speaking; none to 
remember what he had said : that it was easy and delightful to 
follow Mr. Pitt ; not so easy to recollect what had delighted them. 
It may be added that, in all Mr. Fox's speeches, even when he 
was most violent, there was an unquestionable indication of good 
humor, which attracted every heart. Where there was such a 
seemijag equipoise of merit, the two last circumstances might be 
thought to turn the scale; but Mr. Pitt's undeviating circum- 
spection — sometimes concealed, sometimes ostentatiously displayed 
— tended to obtain for him, from the considerate and the grave, a 
confidence which they denied to his rival.* 

' I cannot but transcribe here the spirited and eloquent comparison of Fox 
and Pitt by H. B. Stanton, Esq., in his most instructive book, "Reforms and 
Reformers of Great Britain and Ireland;" a book which every young- man 
entering upon life ought to read. 

" Mr. Fox was totally unlike his great rival. Pitt was stately, taciturn, and 
of an austere temper. Fox was easy, social, and of a kindly disposition. Pitt 
was tall and grave, and, entering the House carefully dressed, walked proudly 
to the head of the Treasury bench, and took his seat as dignified and dumb as 
a statue. Fox was burly and jovial, entered the House in a slouched hat and 
with a careless air, and, as he approached the Opposition benches, had a nod 
for this learned city member, and a joke for that wealthy knight of the shire, 
and sat down, as much at ease as if he were lounging in the back parlor of a 
country inn. Pitt, as the adage runs, could ' speak a king's speech off-hand,' 
so consecutive were his sentences ; and his round, smooth periods delighted 
the aristocracy of all parties. Fox made the Lords of the Treasury quail as 
he declaimed in piercing tones against ministerial corruption, while his friends 
shouted ' Hear ! hear !' and applauded till the House shook. Pitt's sentences 
were pompous and sonorous, and often ' their sound revealed their own hol- 
lowness.' Fox uttered sturdy Anglo-Saxon sense ; every word pregnant with 
meaning. Pitt was a thorough business man, and relied for success m debate 
upon careful preparation. Fox despised the drudgery of the office, and relied 
upon his intuitive perceptions and his robust strength. Pitt was the greater 
secretary — Fox the greater commoner. Pitt's oratory was like the frozen 
stalactites and pyramids which glitter around Niagara in mid- winter, stately, 
clear, and cold : Fox's like the vehement waters which sweep over its brink, 
and roar and boil in the abyss below. Pitt, in his great efforts, only erected 
himself the more proudly, and uttered more full Johnsonian sentences, sprink- 
ling his dignified but monotonous ' state-paper stjie' with pungent sarcasms, 
speaking as one having authority, and commanding that it might stand fast. 
Fox on such occasions reasoned from first principles, denouncing where he 
could not persuade, and reeling under his great thoughts until his excited 
feelings rocked him like the ocean in a storm. Pitt displayed the most 
rhetoric, anJ his mellow voice charmed like the notes of an organ. Fox dis- 



1830-1837.] BUTLER. 271 



MASSILLON AND BOURDALOUE. 

In delivering his sermonSj Bourdaloue used no action; Bossuet 
and Massillon used much. The action of the last was particu- 
larly admired. It produced an extraordinary effect when he pro- 
nounced his funeral oration upon Louis the Fourteenth. The 
church was hung with black, a magnificent mausoleum was raised 
over the bier, the edifice was filled with trophies and other memo- 
rials of the monarch's past glories, daylight was excluded, but 
innumerable tapers supplied its place, and the ceremony was 
attended by the most illustrious persons in the kingdom. Mas- 
sillon ascended the pulpit, contemplated, for some moments, the 
scene before him, then raised his arms to heaven, looked down on 
the scene beneath, and, after a short pause, slowly said, in a 
solemn subdued tone, "God only is great T^ With one im- 
pulse, all the auditory rose from their seats, turned to the altar, 
and slowly and reverently bowed. 

Those who read sermons merely for their literary merit will 
generally prefer the sermons of Massill6n to those of Bourdaloue 
and Bossuet. But those who read sermons for instruction, and 
whose chief object, in the perusal of them, is to be excited to 
virtue or confirmed in her paths, will generally consider Bourda- 
loue as the first of preachers, and every time they peruse him 
will feel new delight. 

When we recollect before whom Bourdaloue preached; that he 
had for his auditors the most luxurious court in Europe, and a 
monarch abandoned to ambition and pleasure, we shall find it 
impossible not to honor the preacher for the dignified simplicity 
with which he uniformly held up to his audience the severity of 
the Gospel, and the scandal of the cross. Now and then, and 
ever with a very bad grace, he makes an unmeaning compliment 
to the monarch. On these occasions, his genius appears to desert 
him; but he never disguises the morality of the Gospel, or with- 
holds its threats. In one of the sermons which he preached 

played the most argument, and his shrill tones pierced like arrows. Pitt had 
an icy taste ; Fox a fiery logic. Pitt had art; Fox nature. Pitt was dignified, 
cool, cautious; Fox manly, generous, brave. Pitt had a mind; Fox a soul. 
Pitt was a majestic automaton; Fox a living man. Pitt was the minister of 
the king; Fox the champion of the people. Both were the early advocates 
of parliamentary reform ; but Pitt retreated, while Fox advanced ; and both 
joined in denouncing and abolishing the horrors of the middle passage. Both 
died the same year, and they sleep side by side in Westminster Abbey, their 
dust mingling with that of their mutual friend Wilberforce ; while over their 
tombs watches with eagle eye and extended arm the moulded form of Chat- 
ham." 



272 CRABBE. [WILLIAM IV. 

before the monarch, he described, with matchless eloquence, the 
horrors of an adulterous life, its abomination in the eye of God, 
its scandal to man, and the public and private evils which attend 
it : but he managed his discourse with so much address that he 
kept the king from suspecting that the thunder of the preacher 
was ultimately to fall upon him. In general, Bourdaloue spoke 
in a level tone of voice, and with his eyes almost shut. On this 
occasion, having wound up the attention of the monarch and the 
audience to the highest pitch, he paused. The audience expected 
something terrible, and seemed to fear the next word. The pause 
continued for some time : at length, the preacher, fixing his eyes 
directly on his royal hearer, and in a tone of voice equally ex- 
pressive of horror and concern, said, in the words of the prophet, 
^Hhou art the maiiF' then, leaving these words to their effect, be 
concluded with a mild and general prayer to heaven for the con- 
version of all sinners. A miserable courtier observed, in a 
whisper, to the monarch, that the boldness of the preacher ex- 
ceeded all bounds, and should be checked. "No, sir," replied 
the monarch; "the preacher has done his duty; let us do ours/* 
When the service was concluded, the monarch walked slowly from 
the church, and ordered 'Bourdaloue into his presence. He re- 
marked to him his general protection of religion, the kindness 
which he had ever shown to the Society of Jesus, his particular 
attention to Bourdaloue and his friends. He then reproached 
him with the strong language of the sermon; and asked him, 
what could be hii motive for insulting him, thus publicly, before 
his subjects? Bourdaloue fell on his knees: "God is my witness 
that it was not my wish to insult your majesty; but I am a 
minister of God, and must not disguise his truths. What I said 
in my sermon is my morning and evening prayer. May God, in 
his infinite mercy, grant me to see the day when the greatest of 
kings shall be the holiest." The monarch was affected, and 
silently dismissed the preacher: but, from this time, the court 
began to observe that change which afterward, and at no distant 
period, led Louis to a life of regularity and virtue. 



GEORGE CRABBE, 1754—1832. 

Geoh&e Crabbe was born at Aldborough, in Suffolk, on the 24th of 
December, 1754, and was the son of an officer of the customs. He was 



1830-1837.] CRABBE. " 273 

apprenticed to an apothecary, and had received an education merely suffi- 
cient to qualify him for that occupation, but by no means answering to that 
eminent Uterary success which he afterwards attained. His poetical taste 
was first kindled by the perusal of verses, which from time to time ap- 
peared in the " Philosophical Magazine" — a periodical taken by his father. 
The attractions of the Muse soon overcame those of iEsculapius, and in 
1778 he quitted the profession of medicine, which he had always disliked, 
and went to London, determining to apply himself to literature. He had 
but little more in his pocket than a bundle of his poems; and these, 
alas ! he could find no one who would venture to publish ; so that at 
length he printed, at his own risk, his first published work, "The Candi- 
date," which appeared anonymously in 1780. It was favorably noticed in 
the "Monthly Review," to the editor of which it was addressed. Find- 
ing, however, that he could not hope for much success while he remained 
personally unknown, without any introduction, and impelled by distress, 
be made himself known to Edmund Burke. From this moment his fortune 
was made. That great and good man received him with much kindness, 
read his productions with approbation, afforded him the advantage of his 
criticism and advice, recommended him to Dodsley, the publisher, invited 
him to his house, and introduced him to some of his distinguished literary 
friends, among whom were Johnson, Reynolds, and Fox. 

Crabbe's first published poems, after his acquaintance with Burke, were 
" The Library," and "The Village,". both of which received the benefit 
of the observations of the great statesman and critic, and the second of 
which was mainly composed at Burke's residence at Beaconsfield. In 
1781, Crabbe, who had been qualifying himself for "the church," at Burke's 
recommendation, was " ordained a deacon, and took priest's orders the fol- 
lowing year," and he, of course, had two or three "livings" presented to 
him.' In 1783, appeared "The Village," which had received the correc- 
tions and commendations of Dr. Johnson.^ He next produced " The News- 
paper," in 1785, after which his poetical labors were suspended for some 
time, probably on account of the duties of his profession, and the cares of 
a growing family, though he ascribes it to the loss of those early and dis- 
tinguished friends who had given him the benefit of their criticism. In 
1809, appeared "The Parish Register;" in 1810 one of his best poems, 
" The Borough ;" and in 1812 " Tales in Verse." His last publication was 
entitled " Tales of the Hall," and was published in 1819. The latter years 
of his life he spent in the tranquil and amiable exercise of his domestic and 
clerical duties, at the rectory of Trowbridge, esteemed and admired by his 
parishioners, among whom he died, after a short illness, on the 8th of 
February, 1832. 

* Lord Chancellor Thurlow bestowed upon him, successively, the " livmg" 
of Frome St. Quintin, in Dorsetshire, which he held for six years, and the 
rectories of Huston and West AUington, in the diocese of Lincoln. 

» Johnson, in a letter to Sir Joshua Reynolds, thus writes : " I have sent you 
back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vi- 
gorous, and elegant." 

24* 



274 CRABBE. [WILLIAM IV. 

Crabbe is one of the most original of English poets, and, as has been 
well remarked, "his originality is of that best kind, which displays itself 
not in tumid exaggeration or flighty extravagance — not in a wide departure 
from the sober standard of truth — but in a more rigid and uncompromising 
adherence to it than inferior writers venture to attempt." He is pre-emi- 
nently the poet of the poor, describing with graphic minuteness their pri- 
vations, temptations, and vices. ^ But, while he spares some of their vices, 
he does more justice to their virtues, and renders them more important 
objects of consideration than perhaps any other imaginative writer. His 
chief characteristics are simplicity, force, pathos, and truth in describing 
character, and through these, and the originality of his style, he compels 
us to bestow our attention on objects that are usually neglected. He had 
a heart to feel for his fellow man, in however low and humble a sphere he 
may be placed, and he directs our sympathy where it is well for the cause 
of humanity that it should be directed, but where the squalidness of misery 
and want too frequently repels it.^ 

An edition of his poems, in eight volumes, was published by Murray in 
1834, the first volume being occupied by a very pleasing piece of filial bio- 
graphy by his son, the Rev. George Crabbe.^ 



THE PARISH WORKHOUSE. 

Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, 
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; 
There, where the putrid vapors, flagging, play, 
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; 
There children dwell who know no parents' care; 
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there; 

* " Mr. Crabbe exhibits the common people of England pretty much as they 
are, and as they must appear to every one who will take the trouble of exa- 
mining into their condition ; at the same time that he renders his sketches in 
a very high degree interesting and beautiful — by selecting what is most fit for 
description — by grouping them into such forms as must catch the attention or 
awake the memory — and by scattering over the whole such traits of moral 
sensibility, of sarcasm, and of useful reflection, as every one must feel to be 
natural and own to be powerful." 

Edinburgh Review, vol. xii. p. 133. 

' Though his having taken a view of life too minute, too humiliating, too 
painful, and too just, may have deprived his works of so extensive, or, at 
least, so brilliant a popularity as some of his contemporaries have attained; 
yet I venture to believe that there is no poet of his times who will stand higher 
in the opinion of posterity. He generally deals with "the short and simple 
annals of the poor;" but he exhibits them with such a deep knowledge of 
human nature, with such general ease and simplicity, and such accurate force 
of expression, whether gay or pathetical, as, in my humble judgment, no poet, 
except Shakspeare, has excelled. 

J. Wilson CroTcer, in BosweWs Johnson, vol. viii. p. 164. 

» See articles in "Edinburgh Review," vol. xii. p. 131; vol. xvi. p. 30; 
vol. XX. p. 277; vol. xxxii. p. 118; vol. Ix p. 255. 



1830-1837.] CRABBE. - 275 

Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, 
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed, 
Dejected widows with unheeded tears, 
And crippled age with more than childhood-fears; 
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! 
The moping idiot and the madman gay. 
Here too the sick their final doom receive, 
• Here brought amid the scenes of grief, to grieve. 
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, 
Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below; 
Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan. 
And the cold charities of man to man : 
Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide, 
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; 
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh. 
And pride imbitters what it can't deny, 
Say ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes. 
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose ; 
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance, 
With timid eye, to read the distant glance ; 
Who, with sad prayers, the weary doctor tease 
To name the nameless ever-new disease ; 
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure, 
Which real pain and that alone can cure ; 
How would ye bear in real pain to lie, 
Despised, neglected, left alone to die 1 
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath 
Where all that's wretched pave the way for death? 
Such is that room which one rude beam divides. 
And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; 
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen. 
And lath and mud are all that lie between; 
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patched, gives way 
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : 
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, 
The drooping wretcfi reclines his languid head ; 
For him no hand the cordial cup applies. 
Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ; 
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile. 
Or promise hope till sickness wears a smile. 



THE ALMSHOUSE PHYSICIAN. 

But soon a loud and hasty summons calls, 
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls: 
Anon, a figure enters, quaintly neat, 
All pride and business, bustle and conceit; 
With looks unaltered by these scenes of woe, 
With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go. 



276 CRABBE. [WILLIAM IV. J 

I 



He bids the gazing throng around him fly, 
And carries fate and physic in his eye; 
A potent quack, long versed in human ills, 
Who first insults the victim whom he kills ; 
Whose murderous hand a drowsy bench protect, 
And whose most tender mercy is neglect. 
Paid by the parish for attendance here, 
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer; 
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies. 
Impatience marked in his averted eyes; 
And, some habitual queries hurried o'er, 
Without reply he rushes on the door; 
His drooping patient, long inured to pain, 
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain; 
He ceases now the feeble help to crave 
Of man ; and silent sinks into the grave. 



PHCEBE DAWSON. 

Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas fair, 
The sweetest flower that ever blossomed there ; 
When PhcEbe Dawson gaily crossed the green, 
In haste to see and happy to be seen ; 
Her air, her manners, all who saw admired, 
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; 
The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed, 
And ease of heart her every look conveyed; 
A native skill her simple robes expressed, 
As with untutored elegance she dressed ; 
The lads around admired so fair a sight. 
And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. 
Admirers soon of every age she gained. 
Her beauty won them and her worth retained ; 
Envy itself could no contempt display, 
They wished her well, whom yet they wished away ; 
Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place 
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; 
But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour. 
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power; 
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, 
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. 

At length, the youth, ordained to move her breast, 
Before the swains with bolder spirit pressed; 
With looks less timid made his passion known, 
And pleased by manners most unlike her own ; 
Loud though in love, and confident though young. 
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue; 
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade. 
He served the squire, and brushed the coat he made ; 



1830-1837.] CRABBE. 

Yet now, would Phoebe hev consent afford, 
Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board; 
With her should years of growing love be spent. 
And growing wealth :-she sighed, and looked consent. 
Now!Through the lane, up hill, and cross the green, 
(Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen- 
Delected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid) 
Led by the lover, walked the silent maid : 
Slow through the meadows roved they many a mile, 
Toyed by each bank and trifled at each style, 
Where, as he painted every blissful view, 
And highly colored what he strongly drew, 
The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears. 
Dimmed the false prospect with prophetic tears^ 
Thus passed the allotted hours, till, hngermg late, 
The lover loitered at the master's gate; 
There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay, 
Till chidden-soothed-entreated-forced away! 
He would of coldness, though indulged, complam, 
And oft retire and oft return again; 
When, if his teazing vexed her gentle mind 
The grief assumed compelled her to be kmd . 
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, 
That she resented first, and then forgave. 
And to his grief and penance yielded more 
Than his presumption had required before. 

Lo' now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, 
And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, 
One who an infant in her arms sustains, _ 
And seems in patience striving ^itl\her pams ; 
Pinched are her looks, as one who pines ^^ b^ead 
Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled , 
Pale her parched lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, 
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow ; 
Serene her manner, till some sudden pam 
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again, 
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, 
And every step with cautious terror makes; 
For not alone that infant in her arms. 
But nearer cause her anxious soul alarms; 
With water burdened then she picks her way. 
Slowly and cautious, in the clingmg clay ; 
Till in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, 
And deeply plunges in the ^f^f^ZTSt\^kes 
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot ^^^f^l^es 
While hope the mind as strength the frame forsakes , 
For when so full the cup of sorrow grows. 
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. 
And now her path, but not her peace she gains 
Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains, 
Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, 
And placing first her infant on the floor, 



277 



278 CRABBE. [WILLIAM IV. 

She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, 
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits; 
In vain — they come, she feels the inflating grief, 
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; 
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distressed, 
Or the sad laugh that cannot be repressed ; 
The neighbor matron leaves her wheel, and flies 
With all the aid her poverty supplies; 
Unfee'd, the calls of nature she obeys, 
Not led by profit, not allured by praise; 
And waiting long, till these contentions cease, 
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. 

Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid ; 
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. 

But who this child of weakness, v^^ant, and care? 
"Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas fair ; 
Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes. 
Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies : 
Compassion first assailed her gentle heart 
For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart : 
"And then his jDrayers! they would a savage move, 
And win the coldest of the sex to love :" 
But ah ! too soon his looks success declared, 
Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired; 
The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, 
A captious tyrant or a noisy sot: 
If present, railing till he saw her pained; 
If absent, spending what their labors gained; 
Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, 
And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. 



THE HARDSHIPS OP THE POOR. 

Or will you deem them amply paid in health, 
Labor's fair child, that languishes with wealth? 
Go, then! and see them rising with the sun. 
Through a long course of daily toil to run ; 
See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat. 
When the knees tremble and the temples beat; 
Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er 
The labor past, and toils to come explore ; 
See them alternate suns and showers engage. 
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age ; 
Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, 
When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew. 
There may you see the youth of slender frame 
Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame ; 
Yet urg'd along, and proudly loath to yield. 
He strives to join his fellows of the field ; 
Till long-contending nature droops at last. 
Declining health rejects his poor repast, 



1830-1837.] CRABBE. - 2T9 

His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees, 
And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. 

Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell. 
Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; 
Or "will you praise that homely, healthy fare, 
Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share? 
Oh ! trifle not with wants you cannot feel. 
Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; 
Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, such 
As you who praise would never deign to touch. 

Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, 
Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; 
Go ! if the peaceful cot your praises share, 
Go look within, and ask if peace be there : 
If peace be his — that drooping, weary sire, 
Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire ; 
Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand 
Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand. 



A BETROTHED PAIR IN HUMBLE LIFE. 

Yes, there are real nrourners; I have seen 
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene; 
Attention through the day her duties claimed. 
And to be useful as resigned she aimed; 
Neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed to expect 
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; 
But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep. 
She sought her place to meditate and weep: 
Then to her mind was all the past displayed. 
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid ; 
For then she thought on one regretted youth. 
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth ; 
"In every place she wandered where they'd been, 
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene 
Where last for sea he took his leave — that place 
With double interest would she nightly trace; 
For long the courtship was, and he would say. 
Each time he sailed, " This once, and then the day 
Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went, 
He drew from pitying love a full consent. 

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took 
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look; 
White M'as his better linen, and his check 
Was made more trim than any on the deck; 
And every comfort men at sea can know, 
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow ; 
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told 
How he should guard against the climate's cold. 
Yet saw not danger, dangers he'd withstood,. 
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. 



280 CRABBE. [WILLIAM IV. 

His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek, 
And he, too, smiled, but seldom would he speak ; 
For now he found the danger, felt the pain, 
With grievous symptoms he could not explain. 

He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh 
A lover's message — "Thomas, I must die; 
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest 
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, 
And gazing go! if not, this trifle take. 
And say, till death I wore it for her sake. 
Yes, I must die — blow on, sweet breeze, blow on ! 
Give me one look before my life be gone ; 
Oh, give me that! and let me not despair — 
One last fond look — and now repeat the prayer." 

He had his wish, and more. I will not paint 
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint — 
With tender fears she took a nearer view, 
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew; 
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, 
" Yes, I must die"' — and hope for ever fled. 

Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime 
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. 
To her he came to die, and every day 
She took some portion of the dread away; 
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read, 
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head ; 
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer, 
Apart she sighed, alone she shed the tear ; 
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot 
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; 
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think, 
Yet said not so — "Perhaps he will not sink." 
A sudden brightness in his look appeared, 
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ; 
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair; 
Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew, 
The friendly many, and the favorite few; 
Nor one that day did he to mind recall 
But she has treasured, and she loves them all. 
When in her way she meets them, they appear 
Peculiar people — death has made them dear. 
He named his friend, but then his hand she pressed, 
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest." 
" I go," he said, but as he spoke she found 
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound; 
Then gazed aff'righted, but she caught a last, 
A dying look of love, and all was past. 

She placed a decent stone his grave above, 
Neatly engraved, an offering of her love : 



1830-1837.] CRABBE. " 281 

For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, 

Awake alike to duty and the dead. 

She would have grieved had they presumed to spare 

The least assistance — 'twas her proper care. 

Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, 

Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit; 

But if observer pass, will take her round, 

And careless seem, for she would not be found ; 

Then go again, and thus her hour employ. 

While visions please her, and while woes destroy. 



SONG OF THE CRAZED MAIDEN. 

Let me not have this gloomy view 

About my room, about my bed ; 
But morning roses, wet with dew. 

To cool my burning brow instead ; 
As flowers that once in Eden grew. 

Let them their fragrant spirits shed. 
And every day their sweets renew, 

Till I, a fading flower, am dead. 

O let the herbs I loved to rear 

Give to my sense their perfumed breath ! 
Let them be placed about my bier. 

And grace the gloomy house of death. 
I'll have my grave beneath a hill. 

Where only Lucy's self shall know, 
Where runs the pure pellucid rill 

Upon its gravelly bed below : 
There violets on the borders blow, 

And insects their soft light display, 
Till, as the morning sunbeams glow. 

The cold phosphoric fires decay. 

That is the grave to Lucy shown ; 

The soil a pure and silver sand; 
The green cold moss above it grown, 

Unplucked of all but maiden hand. 
In virgin earth, till then unturned, 

There let my maiden form be laid; 
Nor let my changed clay be spurned. 

Nor for new guest that bed be made. 

There will the lark, the lamb, in sport, 

In air, on earth, securely play : 
And Lucy to my grave resort, 

As innocent, but not so gay. 
I will not have the churchyard ground 

With bones all black and ugly grown, 
To press my shivering body round. 

Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. 

25 



282 CRABBE. [WILLIAM IV. 

With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, 

In clammy beds of cold blue clay, 
Through which the ringed earthworms creep, 

And on the shrouded bosom prey. 
I will not have the bell proclaim 

When those sad marriage rites begin, 
And boys, without regard or shame. 

Press the vile mouldering masses in. 

Say not, it is beneath my care — 

I cannot these cold truths allow ; 
These thoughts may not afflict me there, 

But oh ! they vex and tease me now ! 
Raise not a turf, nor set a stone, 

That man a maiden's grave may trace, 
But thou, my Lucy, come alone. 

And let affection find the place ! 



HIS LETTER TO EDMUND BURKE.* 

Sir — I am sensible that I need even your talents to apologize 
for the freedom I now take; but I have a plea which, however, 
simply urged, will, with a mind like yours, sir, procure me pardon : 
I am one of those outcasts on the world who are without a friend, 
without employment, and without bread. 

Pardon me a short preface. I had a partial father, who gave 
me a better education than his broken fortune would have allowed; 
and a better than was necessary, as he could give me that only. 
I was designed for the profession of physic; but, not having where- 
withal to complete the requisite studies, the design but served to 
convince me of a parent's affection, and the error it had occasioned. 
In April last, I came to London, with three pounds, and flattered 
myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the common ne- 
cessaries of life till my abilities should procure me more ; of these 
I had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity contributed to my 
delusion. I knew little of the world, and had read books only. 

* "Mr. Crabbe's journal of his London life, extending over a period of three 
months, is one of the most affecting documents which ever lent an interest to 
biography. Arriving in the metropolis in the beginning of 1800, without 
money, friends, or introductions, he rapidly sank into penury and suffering. 
His landlord threatened him, and hunger and a jail already stared him in the 
face. In this emergency, he ventured to solicit the notice of three individuals, 
eminent for station and influence. He applied to Lord North, Lord Shelburne, 
and Lord Thurlow, but without success. In a happy moment the name of 
Burke entered his mind, and he appealed to his sympathy in the following 
letter. The result is well known. In Burke the happy poet found not only 
a patron and a friend, but a sagacious adviser and an accomplished critic." 

Willmott. 



1830-1837.] CRABBE. 283 

I wrote, and fancied perfection in my compositions; when I wanted 
bread, they promised me affluence, and soothed me with dreams 
of reputation, whilst my appearance subjected me to contempt. 
Time, reflection, and want have shown me my mistake. I see 
my trifles in that which I think the true light; and, whilst I deem 
them such, have yet the opinion that holds them superior to the 
common run of poetical publications. 

I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the brother of 
Lord Kochford; in consequence of which, I asked his lordship's 
permission to inscribe my little work to him. Knowing it to be 
free from all political allusions and personal abuse, it was no very 
material point to me to whom it was dedicated. His lordship 
thought it none to him, and obligingly consented to my request. 

I was told that a subscription would be the more profitable 
method for me, and therefore endeavored to circulate copies of the 
inclosed proposals. 

I am afraid, sir, I disgust you with this very dull narration, but 
believe me punished in the misery that occasions it. You will 
conclude that, during this time, I must have been at more expense 
than I could afford; indeed, the most parsimonious could not have 
avoided it. The printer deceived me, and my little business has 
had every delay. The people with whom I live perceive my situa- 
tion, and find me to be indigent and without friends. About ten 
days since, I was compelled to give a note for seven pounds, to 
avoid an arrest for about double that sum which I owe. I wrote to 
every friend I had, but my friends are poor likewise ; ilie time of 
payment approached, and I ventured to represent my case to Lord 
Rochford. I begged to be credited for this sum till I received it 
of my subscribers, which I believe will be within one month; but 
to this letter I had no reply, and I have probably offended by my 
importunity. Having used every honest means in vain, I yester- 
day confessed my inability, and obtained, with much entreaty, and 
as the greatest favor, a week's forbearance, when I am positively 
told that I must pay the money, or prepare for a prison. 

You will guess the purpose of so long an introduction. I ap- 
peal to you, sir, as a good, and, let me add, a great man. I have 
no other pretensions to your favor than that I am an unhappy one. 
It is not easy to support the thoughts of confinement; and I am 
coward enough to dread such an end to my suspense. 

Can you, sir, in any degree, aid me with propriety ? Will you 
ask any demonstrations of my veracity ? I have imposed upon 
myself, but I have been guilty of no other imposition. Let me, 
if possible, interest your compassion. I know those of rank and 
fortune are teased with frequent petitions, and are compelled to 



284 MACKINTOSH. [WILLIAM IV. 

refuse the requests even of those whom they know to be in distress : 
it iS; therefore, with a distant hope I venture to solicit such favor; 
but you will forgive me, sir, if you do not think proper to relieve. 
It is impossible that sentiments like yours can proceed from any 
but a humane and generous heart. 

I will call upon you, sir, to-morrow, and if I have not the hap- 
piness to obtain credit with you, I must submit to my fate. My 
existence is pain to myself, and every one near and dear to me 
are distressed in my distresses. My connections, once the source 
of happiness, now embitter the reverse of my fortune ; and I have 
only to hope a speedy end to a life so unpromisingly begun : in 
which (though it ought not to be boasted of), I can reap some 
consolation from looking to the end of it. I ?m, sir, with the 
greatest respect, your obedient and most humble servant, 

George Crabbe. 



JAMES MACKINTOSH, 1765—1832. 

James Mackintosh,' one of the most distinguished men of his time, and 
who attained eminence in literature, philosophy, history, and politics, was 
born in Aldourie, on the banks of Loch Ness, Scotland, on the 24th of 
October, 1765. At a very early age, he exhibited a remarkable fondness 
for abstruse speculations, and read such books as fell in his way ; among 
which were the works of Pope and Swift. In 1780, he went to the College 
of Aberdeen, where he was recognized, by common consent, as the first 
scholar there ; whilst his courteous demeanor, refined manners, playful 
fancy, and easy flow of elocution, rendered him a general favorite among 
his companions. His chief associate was the Rev. Robert Hall, whom the 
exclusive system of the English universities had forced to seek, in this 
northern seminary, that academical education which was denied to him, 
as a "Dissenter," in his own country. The society and conversation of 
Hall had great influence on Mackintosh's mind, and their intellectual com- 
bats were almost unceasing. 

* In 1803, he received the ''honor (?) of knighthood," and was then "the 
Right Honorable Sir James Mackintosh." 

" Behold the child, by nature's kindly law 
Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw; 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, 
A little louder, but as empty quite : 
Scarfs, garters, gold amuse his riper stage, 
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age."* 

* Alluding to the superstitious devotees of the Papal Church. 



1830-1837.] MACKINTOSH. 285 

In 1784, having taken his degree, he set out for Edinburgh to commence 
the study of physic, which he had made choice of as a profession. Here a 
new world was opened to him, and he was introduced into the first Hterary 
society of that renowned metropolis. But metaphysical, and political and 
scientific speculation, rather than the study of his profession, engrossed his 
attention, and, after three years spent in irregular application, he became a 
candidate for a degree. Having obtained his diploma, he quitted Edin- 
burgh in September, 1787, with a large stock of miscellaneous information, 
but without having concentrated his powers upon any one pursuit, or given 
to professional subjects that systematic attention which is indispensable 
to the attainment of professional eminence. 

Early in 1788, he set out for London, and arrived at that great theatre 
of action at one of the most critical periods of the world's history. " An 
ardent enthusiast for political amelioration, he came in contact with society 
when it was already heaving with the first throes of that great convulsion 
which was soon to overturn all the institutions of a neighboring country, and 
to shake those of every other to their lowest foundations." In the discus- 
sions which were then going on, he was eager to take a part, and his failure 
to receive a medical appointment, which he had expected, led him to think 
seriously of abandoning the profession he had chosen. Early in 1789, he 
was married to Miss Catharine Stuart, a young lady of a respectable Scotch 
family, and, at the age of twenty-four, he found himself with no prospect of 
any immediate professional settlement, his little fortune left him by his 
father rapidly diminishing, and a wife to provide for. 

An opportunity now presented itself which was to give to Mackintosh 
that prominence in the world of politics which he had so long desired. In 
1790, appeared Burke's celebrated " Reflections on the French Revolution," 
than which no work, probably, ever excited so immediate, intense, and 
universal an interest in Great Britain. By some it was regarded as the 
most marvellous union of wisdom and genius that had ever appeared, 
while to others — those who sympathized more with the efforts of the peo- 
ple of France to rid themselves of monarchy — it seemed inconsistent with 
the former life and opinions of the author, and to contain much that was 
exceptionable. Numerous replies immediately appeared, but none, ex- 
cepting the " Rights of Man" of Thomas Paine, were deemed of any 
remarkable power until, in April, 1791, appeared " Vindiciee Gallicce, or a 
Defence of the French Revolution and its English Admirers against the 
Accusations of the Right Honorable Edmund Burke." This work had 
been finished in a great hurry, but, with all its defects and imperfections, 
it at once placed the author in the very front rank of those who upheld 
the cause of France, caused him to be courted and caressed on all sides, 
and made him, as he says, " the lion of London." 

In 1795, Mr. Mackintosh was called to the bar, at which he rose with 
rapid and sure steps. In 1799, he delivered a course of lectures, at Lin- 
coln's Inn, upon the Law of Nature and of Nations, which gained him 
much credit. He was induced to publish the introductory lecture, which 
was no sooner from the press than commendations poured in upon him from 

25^^ 



286 MACKINTOSH. [WILLIAM IV. 

every quarter. In 1803, an event occurred in his life w^hich gave him the 
highest fame as an advocate. On the 21st of February of that year took 
place the celebrated trial of M. Peltier, an emigrant French royalist, for a 
libel on the First Consul of France — Bonaparte. Mr. Mackintosh was 
counsel for the accused, and his address delivered on that occasion has been 
said to be " one of the most splendid displays of eloquence ever exhibited 
in a court of justice — a monument of genius, learning, and eloquence." 

In 1804, he was appointed by the government to the office of Recorder 
of Bombay, and, after having received the customary honor of knight- 
hood, sailed with his family for India, By this step he was in hopes of 
improving his pecuniary resources, and laid out great plans in the walks of 
literature ; but he returned home, in 1812, " with broken health and spirits, 
uncertain prospects, and vast materials for works which were never to be 
completed. He soon after entered Parliament, and continued in it to the 
end of his days — always true to liberal principles. He contributed articles 
of great value to the ' Edinburgh Review,' and in a preliminary discourse 
to the ' Encyclopaedia,' furnished by far the best history of ethical philoso- 
phy that has ever been given to the world. He also published, in three 
volumes, a popular and abridged ' History of England' for * Lardner's Cabi- 
net Cyclopaedia,' which has been highly praised for its enlarged and liberal 
views ; and he was engaged in a ' History of the Revolution of 1688,' ' when 
he was suddenly called away, on the 30th of May, 1832, regretted with 
more sincerity, and admired with less envy, than any other man of his age." 

" The intellectual character of Sir James Mackintosh cannot be un- 
known to any one acquainted with his works, or who has ever read many 
pages of his ' Memoirs ;' and it is needless, therefore, to speak here of his 
great knowledge, the singular union of ingenuity and soundness in his 
speculations, his perfect candor and temper in discussion, the pure and 
lofty morality to which he strove to elevate the minds of others, and in 
his own conduct to conform. These merits, we believe, will no longer 
be denied by any who have heard of his name or looked at his writ- 
ings. But there were other traits of his intellect which could only be 
known to those who were of his acquaintance, and which it is still desir- 
able that the readers of the ' Memoirs' should bear in mind. One of these 
was that ready and prodigious memory by which all that he learned seemed 
to be at once engraved on the proper compartment of his mind, and to pre- 
sent itself the moment it was required; another, still more remarkable, was 
the singular maturity and completeness of all his views and opinions, even 
upon the most abstruse and complicated questions, though raised without 
design or preparation, in the casual course of conversation. * * The 
vast extent of his information, and the natural gayety of his temper, joined 
to the inherent kindness of his disposition, made his conversation at once 
the most instructive and the most generally pleasing that could be ima- 
gined."^ 

* Read a masterly account of this fragment in the sixty-second volume of 
the " Edinburgh Review ;" also, " Memoirs of his Life," by his son Robert. 

= Read a very interesting and able notice of his «« Memoirs" in the " Edin- 
burgh Review," vol. Ixii. p. 205. 



1830-1837.] MACKINTOSH. 287 



DEATH OF HIS WIFE- 

. Allow me, in justice to her memory, to tell you wliat she was, 
and what I owed her. I was guided in my choice only by the 
blind affection of my youth. I found an intelligent companion, 
and a tender friend, a prudent monitress, the most faithful of 
wives, and a mother as tender as children ever had the misfortune 
to lose. I met a woman who, by the tender management of my 
weaknesses, gradually corrected the most pernicious of them. 
She became prudent from affection ; and though of the most gene- 
rous nature, she was taught economy and frugality by her love 
for me. During the most critical period of my life, she preserved 
order in my affairs, from the care of which she relieved me. To 
her I owe whatever I am ; to her whatever I shall be. 

The philosophy which I have learnt only teaches me that vir- 
tue and friendship are the greatest of human blessings, and that 
their loss is irreparable. It aggravates my calamity instead of 
consoling me under it. My wounded heart seeks another conso- 
lation. Governed by these feelings, which have in every age 
and region of the world actuated the human mind, I seek relief, 
and I find it, in the soothing hope and consolatory opinion that a 
Benevolent Wisdom inflicts the chastisement as well as bestows 
the enjoyments of human life; that Superintending Goodness will 
one day enlighten the darkness which surrounds our nature, and 
hangs over our prospects ; that this dreary and wretched life is 
not the whole of man -, that an animal so sagacious and provident, 
and capable of such proficiency in science and virtue, is not like 
the beasts that perish ; that there is a dwelling-place prepared for 
the spirits of the just, and that the ways of God will yet be vin- 
dicated to man. The sentiments of religion which were implanted 
in my mind in my early youth, and which were revived by the 
awful scenes which I have seen passing before my eyes in the 
world, are, I trust, deeply rooted in my heart by this great 
calamity. 



CONVERSATION AND LETTERS.^ 

When a woman of feeling, fancy, and accomplishment has 
learned to converse with ease and grace, from long intercourse 

» " Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection ; some are wise 
and sententious ; some strain their powers for efforts of gayety ; some write 



288 ' MACKINTOSH. [WILLIAM IV. 

with the most polished society, and when she writes as she speaks, 
she must write letters as they ought to be written ; if she has ac- 
quired just as much habitual correctness as is reconcilable with 
the air of negligence. A moment of enthusiasm, a burst of feel- 
ing, a flash of eloquence may be allowed; but the intercourse of 
society, either in conversation or in letters, allows no more. 
Though interdicted from the long-continued use of elevated 
language, they are not without a resource. There is a part of 
language which is disdained by the pedant or the declaimer, and 
which both, if they knew its difficulty, would dread ; it is formed 
of the most familiar phrases and turns in daily use by the gene- 
rality of men, and is full of energy and vivacity, bearing upon it 
the mark of those keen feelings and strong passions from which 
it springs. It is the employment of such phrases which produces 
what may be called colloquial eloquence. Conversation and let- 
ters may be thus raised to any degree of animation, without 
departing from their character. Anything may be said if it be 
spoken in the tone of society; the highest guests are welcome, if 
they come in the easy undress of the club ; the strongest meta- 
phor appears without violence, if it is familiarly expressed; and 
we the more easily catch the warmest feeling, if we perceive that 
it is intentionally lowered in expression, out of condescension to 
our calmer temper. It is thus that harangues and declamations, 
the last proof of bad taste and bad manners in conversation, are 
avoided, while the fancy and the heart find the means of pouring 
forth all their stores. To meet this despised part of language in 
a polished dress, and producing all the effects of wit and elo- 
quence, is a constant source of agreeable surprise. 



JOHNSON S LIVES OF THE POETS. 

Towards the end of his life, when intercourse with the world 
had considerably softened his style, he published his " Lives of 
the English Poets,'^ a work of which the subject insures popu- 
larity, and on which his fame probably now depends. He seems 
to have poured into it the miscellaneous information which he had 
collected, and the literary opinions which he had formed during 
his long reign over the literature of London. The critical part 
has produced the warmest agitations of literary faction. The 

news, and some write secret? ; but to make a letter without affection, without 
wisdom, without gayety, without news, and without a secret, is doubtless the 
great epistolic art." 

Johnson's Letter to Mrs. Thrale, 



1830-1837.] MACKINTOSH. 289 

time may, perhaps, now be anived for an impartial estimate of 
its merits. Whenever understanding alone is sufficient for poetical 
criticism, the decisions of Johnson are generally right. But the 
beauties of poetry must be felt before their causes are investigated. 
There is a poetical sensibility which, in the progress of the mind, 
becomes as distinct a power as a musical ear or a picturesque eye. 
Without a considerable degree of this sensibility, it is as vain for 
a man of the greatest understanding to speak of the higher beau- 
ties of poetry as it is for a blind man to speak of colors. To adopt 
the warmest sentiments of poetry, to realize its boldest imagery, 
to yield to every impulse of enthusiasm, to submit to the illu- 
sions of fancy, to retire with the poet into his ideal worlds, were 
dispositions wholly foreign from the worldly sagacity and stern 
shrewdness of Johnson. If this unpoetical character be con- 
sidered, if the force of prejudice be estimated, if we bear in mind 
that in this work of his old age we must expect to find him 
enamored of every paradox which he had supported with brilliant 
success, and that an old man seldom warmly admires those works 
which have appeared since his sensibility has become sluggish, 
and his literary system formed, we shall be able to account for 
most of the unjust judgments of Johnson, without recourse to any 
suppositions inconsistent with honesty and integrity. 

As in his judgment of life and character, so in his criticism on 
poetry, he was a sort of freethinker. He suspected the refined 
of afiectation, he rejected the enthusiastic as absurd, and he took 
it for granted that the mysterious was unintelligible. He came 
into the world when the school of Dryden and Pope gave the law 
to English poetry. In that school he had himself learned to be 
a lofty and vigorous declairaer in harmonious verse ; beyond that 
school his unforced admiration perhaps scarcely soared ; and his 
highest efibrt of criticism was accordingly the noble panegyric on 
Dry den. His criticism owed its popularity as much to its defects 
as to its excellencies. It was on a level with the majority of 
readers — persons of good sense and information, but of no ex- 
quisite sensibility; and to their minds it derived a false appear- 
ance of solidity from that very narrowness which excluded those 
grander efibrts of imagination to which Aristotle and Bacon 
confined the name of poetry. 

Among the victories gained by Milton, one of the most signal 
is that which he obtained over all the prejudices of Johnson, who 
was compelled to make a most vigorous, though evidently reluc- 
tant, efi"ort to do justice to the fame and genius of the greatest of 
English poets. The alacrity with which he seeks every occasion 
to escape from this painful duty, in observation upon Milton's life 



290 MACKINTOSH. [WILLIAM IV. 

and minor poems, sufficiently attests the irresistible power of 
'^ Paradise Lost.^' As be bad no feeling of the lively and grace- 
ful, we must not wonder at bis injustice to Prior. Some accidental 
impression, concurring witb a long babit of indulging and venting 
every singularity, seems necessary to account for bis baving for- 
gotten tbat Swift was a wit. As tbe " Seasons'' appeared during 
tbe susceptible part of Jobnson's life, bis admiration of Tbomson 
prevailed over tbat ludicrous prejudice wbicb be professed against 
Scotland, perbaps because it was a Presbyterian country. His 
insensibility to tbe bigber order of poetry, bis dislike of a Wbig 
university, and bis scorn of a fantastic character, combined to 
produce tbat monstrous example of critical injustice wbicb be 
entitles tbe ^^Life of Gray." 

Sucb is tbe character which may be bestowed on Johnson by 
those who feel a profound reverence for his virtues, and a respect 
approaching to admiration for his intellectual powers, without 
adopting bis prejudices or being insensible to bis defects. 



GROTIUS. 

The reduction of the law of nations to a system was reserved 
for Grotius. It was by tbe advice of Lord Bacon and Peiresk 
tbat be undertook this arduous task. He produced a work which 
we now indeed justly deem imperfect, but which is, perbaps, the 
most complete that the world has yet owed, in so early a stage in 
the progress of society, to tbe genius and learning of one man. 
So great is the uncertainty of posthumous reputation, and so liable 
is the fame of even tbe greatest men to be obscured by those new 
fashions of thinking and writing which succeed each other so 
rapidly among polished nations, that Grotius, who filled so large 
a space in tbe eye of his contemporaries, is now, perhaps, known 
to some of my readers only by name. Yet, if we fairly estimate 
both his endowments and his virtues, we may justly consider him 
as one of tbe most memorable men who have done honor to 
modern times. He combined the discharge of tbe most important 
duties of active and public life witb tbe attainment of tbat exact 
and various learning which is generally the portion only of tbe 
recluse student. He was distinguished as an advocate and a 
magistrate, and he composed the most valuable works of his own 
country; be was almost equally celebrated as an historian, a 
scholar, a poet, and a divine -, a disinterested statesman, a philo- 
sophical lawyer, a patriot who united moderation witb firmness, 



1830-1837.] MACKINTOSH. 291 

and a theologian who was taught candor by his learning. Un- 
merited exile did not damp his patriotism; the bitterness of 
controversy did not extinguish his charity; the sagacity of his 
numerous and fierce adversaries could not discover a blot in his 
character ; and in the midst of all the hard trials and galling pro- 
vocations of a turbulent political life, he never once deserted his 
friends when they were unfortunate, nor insulted his enemies 
when they were weak. In times of the most furious civil and 
religious faction, he preserved his name unspotted; he knew how 
to reconcile fidelity to his own party with moderation towards his 
opponents. Such was the man who was destined to give a new 
form to the law of nations, or rather to create a science of which 
only rude sketches and undigested materials were scattered over 
the writings of those who had gone before him. By tracing the 
laws of his country to their principles, he was led to the contem- 
plation of the law of nature, which he justly considered as the 
parent of all municipal law. 



DUGALD STEWART. 

Dugald Stewart was the son of Dr. Matthew Stewart, professor 
of mathematics in the University of Edinburgh, a station imme- 
diately before filled by Maclaurin, on the recommendation of 
Newton. He was born in 1753. He was educated in Edin- 
burgh, and he heard the lectures of Reid at Glasgow. He was 
early associated with his father in the duties of the mathematical 
professorship ; and, during the absence of Dr. Ferguson, as secre- 
tary to the commissioners sent to conclude a peace with the United 
States, he occupied the chair of Moral Philosophy. He was ap- 
pointed to the professorship on the resignation of Ferguson. 

This office, filled in immediate succession by Ferguson, Stewart, 
and Brown, received a lustre from their names which it owed in 
no degree to its modest exterior or its limited advantages, and 
was rendered by them the highest dignity in the humble, but not 
obscure, establishments of Scottish literature. The lectures of 
Mr. Stewart, for a quarter of a century, rendered it famous 
through every country where the light of reason was allowed to 
penetrate. Perhaps few men ever lived who poured into the 
breasts of youth a more fervid and yet reasonable love of liberty, 
of truth, and of virtue. How many are still alive, in difi"erent 
countries, and in every rank to which education reaches, whof if 
they accurately examined their own minds and lives, would not 



292 MACKINTOSH. [WILLIAM IV. 

ascribe mucli of whatever goodness and happiness they possess to 
the early impressions of his gentle and persuasive eloquence ! 
He lived to see his disciples distinguished among the lights and 
ornaments of the council and the senate. He had the consolation 
to be sure that no words of his promoted the growth of an impure 
taste, of an exclusive prejudice, of a malevolent passion. Without 
derogation from his writings, it may be said that his disciples 
were among his best works. 

He, indeed, who may justly be said to have cultivated an extent 
of mind which would have otherwise remained barren, and to 
have contributed to raise virtuous dispositions where the natural 
growth might have been useless or noxious, is not less a benefac- 
tor of mankind, and may, indirectly ^ be a larger contributor to 
knowledge, than the author of great works, or even the discoverer 
of important truths. The system of conveying scientific instruc- 
tion to a large audience by lectures, from which the English 
universities have in a great measure departed, renders his qualities 
as a lecturer a most important part of his merit in a Scottish 
university, which still adheres to the general method of European 
education. 

Probably no modern ever exceeded Mr. Stewart in that species 
of eloquence which springs from sensibility to literary beauty and 
moral eloquence ; which neither obscures science by prodigal orna- 
ment, nor disturbs the serenity of patient attention ; but, though 
it rather calms and soothes the feelings, yet exalts the genius, 
and insensibly inspires a reasonable enthusiasm for whatever is 
good and fair. 

Few writers rise with more grace from a plain groundwork to 
the passages which require greater animation or embellishment. 
He gives to narrative, according to the precept of Bacon, the color 
of the time by a selection of happy expressions from original 
writers. Among the secret arts by which he diffuses elegance 
over his diction, may be remarked the skill which, by deepening 
or brightening a shade in a secondary term, by opening partial or 
preparatory glimpses of a thought to be afterwards unfolded, un- 
observedly heightens the import of a word, and gives it a new 
meaning, without any offence against old use. It is in this man- 
ner that philosophical originality may be reconciled to purity and 
stability of speech — that we may avoid new terms, which are the 
easy resource of the unskilful or the indolent, and often a charac- 
teristic mark of writers who love their language too little to feel 
its peculiar excellencies, or to study the art of calling forth its 
powers. 



1830-1837.] MACKINTOSH. 293 



THE PROGRESSIVENESS OP THE RACE. 

In governmentj commerce has overthrown that "feudal and 
chivah'ous'^ system under whose shade it first grew. In religion, 
learning has subverted that superstition whose opulent endow- 
ments had first fostered it. Peculiar circumstances softened the 
barbarism of the Middle Ages to a degree which favored the ad- 
mission of commerce and the growth of knowledge. These cir- 
cumstances were connected with the manners of chivalry ; but the 
sentiments peculiar to that institution could only be preserved by 
the situation which gave them birth. They were themselves en- 
feebled in the progress from ferocity and turbulence, and almost 
obliterated by tranquillity and refinement. But the auxiliaries 
which the manners of chivalry had in rude ages reared, gathered 
strength from its weakness, and flourished in its decay. Com- 
merce and diffused knowledge have, in fact, so completely assumed 
the ascendant in polished nations, that it will be difficult to dis- 
cover any relics of Grothic manners but in a fantastic exterior, 
which has survived the generous illusions that made these manners 
splendid and seductive. Their direct influence has long ceased 
in Europe ; but their indirect influence, through the medium of 
those causes which would not perhaps have existed but for the 
mildness which chivalry created in the midst of a barbarous age, 
still operates with increasing vigor. The manners of the Middle 
Age were, in the most singular sense, compulsory. Enterprising 
benevolence was produced by general fierceness, gallant courtesy 
by ferocious rudeness, and artificial gentleness resisted the torrent 
of natural barbarism. But a less incongruous system has suc- 
ceeded, in which commerce, which unites men's interests, and 
knowledge, which excludes those prejudices that tend to embroil 
them, present a broader basis for the stability of civilized and 
beneficent manners. 

Mr. Burke, indeed, forebodes the most fatal consequences to 
literature from events which he supposes to have given a mortal 
blow to the spirit of chivalry. I have ever been protected from 
such apprehensions by my belief in a very simple truth — that 
diffused knowledge immortalizes itself. A literature which is 
confined to a few may be destroyed by the massacre of scholars 
and the conflagration of libraries ; but the diffused knowledge of 
the present day could only be annihilated by the extirpation of the 
civilized part of mankind. 

From the Vindicice GalliccB. 

26 



294 MACKINTOSH. [WILLIAM IV. 



THE BLESSINGS OF A FREE PRESS. 

Gentlemen, there is one point of view in which this case seems 
to merit your most serious attention. The real prosecutor is the 
master of the greatest empire the civilized world ever saw; the 
defendant is a defenceless, proscribed exile. I consider this case, 
therefore, as the first of a long series of conflicts between the 
greatest power in the world and the only free press remaining in 
Europe. Gentlemen, this distinction of the English press is new 
— it is a proud and a melancholy distinction. Before the great 
earthquake of the French Revolution had swallowed up all the 
asylums of free discussion on the Continent, we enjoyed that privi- 
lege, indeed, more fully than others, but we did not enjoy it 
exclusively. In Holland, in Switzerland, in the imperial towns 
of Germany, the press was either legally or practically free. 

But all these have been swallowed up by that fearful convul- 
sion which has shaken the uttermost corners of the earth. They 
are destroyed, and gone forever ! One asylum of free discussion 
is still inviolate. There is still one spot in Europe where man 
can freely exercise his reason on the most important concerns of 
society, where he can boldly publish his judgment on the acts of 
the proudest and most powerful tyrants. The press of England 
is still free. It is guarded by the free constitution of our fore- 
fathers. It is guarded by the hearts and arms of Englishmen, 
and I trust I may venture to say that, if it be to fall, it will fall 
only under the ruins of the British empire. It is an awful con- 
sideration, gentlemen. Every other monument of European 
liberty has perished. That ancient fabric which has been gradu- 
ally reared by the wisdom and virtue of our fathers, still stands. 
It stands, thanks be to God! solid and entire — but it stands alone, 
and it stands in ruins ! Believing, then, as I do, that we are on 
the eve of a great struggle — that this is only the first battle be- 
tween reason and power — that you have now in your hands, 
committed to your trust, the only remains of free discussion in 
Europe, now confined to this kingdom ; addressing you, therefore, 
as the guardians of the most important interests of mankind; 
convinced that the unfettered exercise of reason depends more on 
your present verdict than on any other that was ever delivered by 
a jury — I trust I may rely with confidence on the issue — I 
trust that you will consider yourselves as the advanced guard of 
liberty, as having this day to fight the first battle of free discus- 
sion against the most formidable enemy that it ever encountered ! 

Speech in Defence of Mr. Peltier. 



1830-1837.] MORE. - 295^ 



HANNAH MORE, 1745—1833. 

This most excellent and accomplished woman was the daughter of Jacob 
More, a village schoolmaster at Stapleton, in Gloucestershire, where she was 
born in the year 1745. Soon after this, Mr. More removed to Bristol, where 
he was appointed to take charge of the parochial school of St. Mary Red- 
clifF, The family, which numbered four other daughters, soon began to 
attract notice, as one in which there was an unusual degree of talent ; and, 
shortly after removing to Bristol, they opened a boarding and day school for 
young ladies, which continued for many years the most flourishing estab- 
lishment of the kind in the west of England. Hannah was, from early 
life, the most remarkable of the family. Her first literary efforts were some 
poetical pieces written for the edification of her pupils. Among these was 
the "Search after Happiness," a pastoral drama, which she wrote at 
eighteen, but did not publish till 1773. It met with a very flattering recep- 
tion. She was thus induced to try her strength in the higher walks of 
dramatic poetry, and she successively brought forward for the stage her 
tragedies of the " Inflexible Captive," " Percy," and " The Fatal False- 
hood :" of these, " Percy" was the most popular, having been acted four- 
teen nights successively. The reputation which she thus acquired intro- 
duced her into the best literary society of London — into the circle in which 
Johnson, and Burke, and Sir Joshua Reynolds moved. But her dramatic 
career closed with the production of these tragedies. Shortly after, her 
opinions upon the theatre underwent a decided change, and, as she has 
stated in the preface to her tragedies, she did not "consider the stage, in 
its present state, as becoming the appearance or the countenance of a 
Christian." 1 This great change in her spiritual views was followed by a 
corresponding change in her manner of life. 

Under a deep conviction that to live to the glory of God, and for the 
good of our fellow-creatures, is the great object of human existence, and 
the only one which can bring peace at the last, she quitted, in the prime of 
her days, the bright circles of fashion aft literature, and, retiring into 
the neighborhood of Bristol, devoted herself to a life of active Christian 
benevolence, and to the composition of various works having for their 
object the moral and religious improvement of mankind. Her practical 
conduct thus beautifully exemplified the moral energy of her Christian 
principles. 

She retired into the country in 1786, and in two years after published her 
first prose piece, " Thoughts on the Manners of the Great," and a " Poem 
on the Slave Trade." These were followed, in 1791, by her "Estimate 
of the Religion of the Fashionable World." In 1795, she commenced, at 

1 While her mind was in this state of transition, she published, in 1782, a 
volume of " Sacred Dramas," to which was annexed a poem called "Sensi- 
bility;" all of which were received by the public with great favor, 



296 MORE. [WILLIAM IV. 

Bath, in monthly numbers, "The Cheap Repository," a series of most 
instructive and interesting tales, one of which is the world-renowned 
" Shepherd of Salisbury Plain." The success of this publication, so sea- 
sonable, at a time when the infidelity of France had too many admirers in 
England, was extraordinary and unprecedented ; for it is said that in one 
year one million copies of the work were sold.' In 1799, appeared her 
" Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education," which led 
to an intention, warmly advocated by Forteus, the Bishop of London, 
of committing to her the education of Charlotte, Princess of Wales. 
This, however, was not effected, but it led to the publication of her " Hints 
towards Forming the Character of a Young Princess," in 1805. Then 
came what has, perhaps, been her most popular work, " Ccelebs in Search 
of a Wife," published in 1809, and which passed through at least six 
editions in one year. It is a very entertaining and instructive novel, full 
of striking remarks on men and manners, and portrays the kind of charac- 
ter which, in the estimation of our author, it is desirable that young ladies 
should possess. 

In 1811 and 1812, appeared her "Practical Piety," and "Christian 
Morals;'' and, in 1815, her "Essay on the Character and Writings of 
Saint Paul" — a far bolder undertaking than any in which she had previ- 
ously been engaged, and which she has executed to the delight of every 
reader. Soon after the death of her sister Martha, in 1819, her literary 
career terminated with "Moral Sketches," and "Reflections on Prayer." 
She was now aged and infirm, but still continued to take a great interest 
in the welfare of charity schools, Bible and missionary societies, and other 
benevolent and religious institutions. In 1828, she left Barley Wood,^ 
where she had resided from the beginning of the century, and took up her 
abode at Clifton, very near Bristol, at both of which places she had many 
valuable friends, though she had outlived every known relation on the 
earth. Here she spent her last days, supported in the afflictions of age by 
the consolations of that religion to the service of which she had devoted 
the vigor of her life, and expired, with the calmness and full faith of the 
Christian, on the 7th of September, 1833. 

» " Hannah Here's eminently uflful life manifested itself in nothing more than 
in the effort she made to instruct the ignorant, through the medium of moral 
and religious tracts, and by the establishment of schools. These were made 
a blessing on a wide scale, whilst their good effects are continued to this time, 
and are likely to be perpetuated." 

Cottiers Reminiscences of Southey and Coleridge. 

"^ A cottage delightfully situated in the village of Wrington, in Somersetshire, 
a village renowned as the birthplace of John Locke. " Miss Hannah More 
lived with her four sisters, Mary, Elizabeth, Sarah, and Martha, after they 
quitted their school in Park Street, Bristol, at a small neat cottage in Somer- 
setshire, called Cowslip Green. The Misses M., some years afterward, built 
a better house, and called it Barley Wood, on the side of a hill about a mile 
from Wrington. Here they all lived in the highest degree respected and beloved, 
their house the seat of piety, cheerfulness, literature, and hospitality ; and they 
themselves receiving the honor of more visits from bishops, nobles, and persons 
of distinction than, perhaps, any private family in the kingdom." 

Ibid. 



1830-1837.] MORE. " 297 

Few authors of any age or country have done more to improve man- 
kind — to make them wiser and better for loth worlds — than Hannah More. 
All her writings are devoted to the cause of sound Christian morals and 
practical righteousness.* Her poetry, though it takes not a very high rank 
among the productions of the Muse, is easy in its versification, displays a 
considerable degree of imagination, and is full of excellent sentiments and 
judicious remarks upon men and manners. ^ Her prose is justly admired 
for its sententious wisdom, its practical good sense, its masculine vigor, 
and the elevated, moral, and religious tone that pervades it.'' 



WAR. 

O war, what art thou ? 

After the brightest conquest, what remains 

Of all thy glories'? For the vanquish'd — chains ; 

For the proud victor — what ? Alas ! to reign 

O'er desolated nations — a drear waste, 

By one man's crime, by one man's lust of power, 

Unpeopled! Naked plains and ravaged fields 

Succeed to smiling harvests and the fruits 

Of peaceful olive — luscious fig and vine ! 

Here — rifled temples are the cavern'd dens 

Of savage beasts, or haunt of birds obscene ; 

There — populous cities blacken in the sun, 

And in the general wreck proud palaces 

Lie undistinguish'd save by the dull smoke 

Of recent conflagration ! When the song 

Of dear-bought joy, with many a triumph swell'd, 

Salutes the victor's ear, and soothes bis pride, 

How is the grateful harmony profan'd 

With the sad dissonance of virgins' cries. 

Who mourn their brothers slain ! Of matrons hoar, 

Who clasp their wither'd hands, and fondly ask, 

With iteration shrill — their slaughter'd sons ! 

How is the laurel's verdure stain'd with blood, 

And soiFd with widows' tears! 



OPPRESSION. 

What wrongs, what injuries does oppression plead, 
To smooth the crime and sanctify the deed ? 

* A writer, in an article in the fifty-second volume of the " Quarterly Re- 
view," thus strongly remarks : " How many have thanked God for the hour 
that first made tliera acquainted with the writings of Hannah More ! She did 
as much real good in her generation as any woman that ever held the pen." 

2 In the house of Garrick, where she was a constant visitor in the earlier 
part of her life, she was called " The Tenth Muse," and then for shortness, 
and still more refincdly, "Miss Nine." 

» Horace Walpole used to call her his " Holy Hannah." ^ 

2f^* 



298 MORE. [AVILLIAM IV. 

What strange offence, what aggravated sin ? 

They stand convicted — of a darker skin ! 

Barbarians, hold ! th' opprobrious commerce spare; 

Respect His sacred image w^hich they bear. 

Though dark and savage, ignorant and blind, 

They claim the common privilege of kind ; 

Let Malice strip them of each other plea. 

They still are men, and men should still be free. 

Insulted Reason loathes th' inverted trade — 

Loathes, as she views the human purchase made ; 

The outrag'd Goddess, with abhorrent eyes. 

Sees Man the traffic. Souls the merchandise ! 

Man, whom fair Commerce taught with judging eye, 

And liberal hand, to barter or to buy, 

Indignant Nature blushes to behold, 

Degraded Man himself, truck'd, barter'd, sold ; 

Of ev'ry native privilege bereft, 

Yet curs'd with ev'ry wounded feeling left. 

Hard lot ! each brutal suff'ring to sustain, 

Yet keep the sense acute of human pain. 

Plead not, in reason's palpable abuse, 

Their sense of feeling' callous and obtuse: 

From heads to hearts lies Nature's plain appeal — 

Though few can reason, all mankind can feel. 

Though wit may boast a livelier dread of shame^ 

A loftier sense of wrong refinement claim ; 

Though polish'd manners may fresh wants invent, 

And nice distinctions nicer souls torment; 

Though these on finer spirits heavier fall, 

Yet natural evils are the same to all. 

Who makes the sum of human blessings less, 

Or sinks the stock of general happiness. 

Though erring fame may grace, though false renown 

His life may blazon or his memory crown. 

Yet the last audit shall reverse the cause, 

And God shall vindicate his broken laws. 

The purest wreaths which hang on glory's shrine, 
For empires founded, peaceful Peniv! are thine; 
No blood-stain'd laurels crown'd thy virtuous toil. 
No slaughter'd natives drench'd thy fair-earn'd soil. 

Still thy meek spirit in thy flock^ survives; 
Consistent still, their doctrines rule their lives; 
Thy followers only have effac'd the shame 
Inscrib'd by Slavery on the Christian name. 

What page of human annals can record 
A deed so bright as human rights restor'd 1 
O may that godlike deed, that shining page, 
Redeem our fame, and consecrate our age ! 

* Nothing is more frequent than this cruel and stupid argument, that they do 
not feel the miseries inflicted on them as Europeans would do. — H. M. 
^ The Quakers have emancipated all their slaves throughout America. 

H. M. 



1830-1837.] MORE. 299 

And, see the cherub Mercy from above,' 
Descending softly, quits the sphere of love! 
On Britain's Isle she sheds her heavenly dew, 
And breathes her spirit o'er th' enlighten'd few ; 
From soul to soul the generous influence steals, 
Till every breast the soft contagion feels. 
She speeds, exulting, to the burning shore, 
With the best message Angel ever bore; 
Hark! 'tis the note which spoke a Saviour's birth, 
Glory to God on high, and peace on Earth ! 
She vindicates the Pow'r in Heaven ador'd, 
She stills the clank of chains, and sheathes the sword ; 
She cheers the mourner, and with soothing hands 
From bursting hearts unbinds th' Oppressor's bands; 
Restores the lustre of the Christian name, 
And clears the foulest blot that dimm'd its fame. 



FAITH IN HUMBLE LIFE. 

Thy triumphs, Faith, we need not take 

Alone from the blest martyr's stake ; ^ 

In scenes obscure, no less we see 

That Faith is a reality ; 

An evidence of things not seen, 

A substance firm whereon to lean. 

Go, search the cottager's low room, 

The day scarce piercing through the gloom ; 

The Christian on his dying bed. 

Unknown, unlettered, hardly fed ; 

No flattering witnesses attend, 

To tell how glorious was his end ; 

Save in the Book of Life, his name 

Unheard ; he never dreamed of fame : 

No human consolation near, 

No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer ; 

Of every earthly stay bereft. 

And nothing but his Saviour left; 

Fast sinking to his kindred dust, 

The Word of Life is still his trust ; 

The joy God's promises impart 

Lies like a cordial at his heart; 

Unshaken faith its strength supplies. 

He loves, believes, adores, and dies ! 

* This was written before England set to the world that noble example of 
himianity, in giving liberty to her slave population in all her colonics through- 
out her empire. 



300 MORE. [WILLIAM IV. 



A RIDDLE. 

I'm a strange contradiction, I'm new and I'm old, 

I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold ; 

Though I never could read, yet letter'd I'm found ; 

Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound. 

I'm always in black, and I'm always in white, 

I'm grave and I'm gay; I am heavy and light. 

In numbers I vary; I'm eight and I'm four ; 

And though I am twelve, I can't reach half a score. 

In form, too, I differ ; I'm thick and I'm thin ; 

I've no flesh, and no bone, yet I'm covered with skin. 

I've more points than the compass, more stops th^n the flute ; 

I sing without voice, without speaking confute. 

I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch ; 

Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much ; 

I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages, 

And no monarch alive has so many pages. 



^ IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES. \ 

Since trifles make the sum of human things, 
And half our misery from our foibles springs; 
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease, 
And tho' but few can serve, yet all may please ; 
O let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence, 
A small unkindness is a great offence ! 

To spread large bounties, tho' we wish in vain, ' 

Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain. 

To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth, j 

With rank to grace them, or to crown with health. 
Our little lot denies; yet, liberal still, 
God gives its counterpoise to every ill ; 
Nor let us murmur at our stinted powers. 

When kindness, love, and concord may be ours. i 

The gift of minist'ring to others' ease, S : 

To all her sons impartial Heaven decrees; } ' 

The gentle offices of patient love, 

Beyond all flattery, and all price above; i 

The mild forbearance at a brother's fault, i 

The angry word suppress'd, the taunting thought; 
Subduing and subdued the petty strife ^ j 

Which clouds the color of domestic life ; '' 

The sober comfort, all the peace which springs ; 

From the large aggregate of little things; 

On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend, \ 

The almost sacred joys of Home depend : i 

There, Sensibility thou best may'st reign ; ' 

Home is thy true legitimate domain. 

From SensiHlity . 



1830-1837.] MORE. 301 



THE TWO WEAVERS. 

As at their work two weavers sat, 
Beguiling time with friendly chat, 
They touch'd upon the price of meat, 
So high, a weaver scarce could eat. 

" What with my brats and sickly wife," 
Quoth Dick, " I'm almost tired of life ; 
So hard ray work, so poor my fare, 
'Tis more than mortal man can bear, 

" How glorious is the rich man's state ! 
His house so fine ! his wealth so great ! 
Heav'n is unjust, you must agree ; 
Why all to him 1 why none to me 1 

" In spite of what the Scripture teaches, 
In spite of all the parson preaches. 
This world (indeed I've thought so long) 
Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong. 

" Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 
'Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange ; 
The good are troubled and oppress'd, 
And all the wicked are the bless'd." 

Quoth John, " Our ignorance is the cause 
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws ; 
Parts of his ways alone we know ; 
'Tis all that man can see below. 

" Seest thou that carpet, not half done, 
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun ? 
Behold the wild confusion there, 
So rude the mass it makes one stare ! 

" A stranger, ign'rant of the trade. 
Would say, no meaning 's there convey'd; 
For Where's the middle, where's the border! 
Thy carpet now is all disorder." 

Quoth Dick, " My work is yet in bits. 
But still in ev'ry part it fits ; 
Besides, you reason like a lout — 
Why, man, that carpet 's inside outJ^ 

Says John, " Thou say'st the thing I mean, 
And now I hope to cure thy spleen ; 
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt, 
Is but a carpet inside out. 

" As when we view these shreds and ends. 
We know not what the whole intends ; 
So, when on earth things look but odd, 
They're working still some scheme of God. 



302 MORE. [WILLIAM IV. 

" No plan, no pattern, can we trace ; 
All wants proportion, truth, and grace ; 
The motley mixture we deride, 
Nor see the beauteous upper side. 

" But when we reach that world of light, 
And view those works of God aright, 
Then shall we see the whole design, 
And own the workman is divine. 

" What now seem random strokes, will there 
All order and design appear ; 
Then shall we praise what here we spurn 'd, 
For then the carpet shall be turn^dy 

" Thou'rt right," quoth Dick ; " no more I'll grumble 
That this sad world 's so strange a jumble; 
My impious doubts are put to flight. 
For my own carpet sets me right." 



THE THEATRE. — SHAKSPEARE. 

What tlie stage miglit be under another and an imaginary state 
of things, it is not very easy for us to know, and therefore not 
very important to inquire. Nor is it indeed the soundest logic to 
argue on the possible goodness of a thing, which, in the present 
circumstances of society, is doing positive evil, from the imagined 
good that thing might be conjectured to produce in a supposed 
state of unattainable improvement. Would it not be more safe 
and simple to determine our judgment as to the character of the 
thing in question on the more visible, and therefore more rational, 
grounds of its actual state, and from the effects which it is known 
to produce in that state ? 

I have never perused any of those treatises, excellent as some 
of them are said to be, which pious divines have written against 
the pernicious tendency of theatrical entertainments. The con- 
victions of my mind have arisen solely from experience and obser- 
vation. I shall not, therefore, go over the well-trodden ground 
of those who have inveighed, with too much justice, against the 
immoral lives of too many stage professors, allowing always for 
some very honorable exceptions. I shall not remark on the gross 
and palpable corruptions of those plays which are obviously writ- 
ten with an open disregard to all purity and virtue ; nor shall I 
attempt to show whether any very material advantage would arise 
to the vain and the dissipated, were they to exclude the theatre 
from its turn in their indiscriminate round of promiscuous plea- 
sure. But I would coolly and respectfully address a few words to 



1830-1837.] MORE. 30a 

those many worthy and conscientious persons who would not, per- 
haps, so early and incautiously expose their youthful offspring to 
the temptations of this amusement, if they themselves could be 
brought to see and to feel the existence of its dangers. 

The question, then, which with great deference I would pro- 
pose, is not, whether those who risk everything may not risk this 
also, but whether the more correct and considerate Christian might 
not find it worth while to consider whether the amusement in 
question be entirely compatible with his avowed character? 
whether it be altogether consistent with the clearer views of one 
who professes to live in the sure and certain hope of that immor- 
tality which is brought to light by the Gospel ? 

A Christian in our days is seldom called in his ordinary course 
to great and signal sacrifices, to very striking and very ostensible 
renunciations ; but he is daily called to a quiet, uniform, constant 
series of self-denial in small things. A dangerous and bewitch- 
ing, especially if it be not a disreputable, pleasure, may, perhaps, 
have a just place among those sacrifices : and if he be really in 
earnest, he will not think it too much to renounce such petty 
enjoyments, were it only from the single consideration that it is 
well to seize every little occasion which occurs of evidencing to 
himself that he is constantly on the watch ; and of proving to the 
world that, in small things as well as in great, he is a follower of 
Him ivho pleased not himself. 

It is generally the leading object of the dramatic poet to erect 
a standard of Honor in direct opposition to the standard of Chris- 
tianity. And this is not done subordinately, incidentally, occa- 
sionally j but worldly honor is the very soul, and spirit, and life- 
giving principle of the drama. Honor is the religion of tragedy. 
It is her moral and political law. Her dictates form its institutes. 
Fear and shame are the capital crimes in her code. Against these, 
all the eloquence of her most powerful pleaders; against these, her 
penal statutes, pistol, sword, and poison, are in full force. Injured 
honor can only be vindicated at the point of the sword; the stains 
of injured reputation can only be washed out in blood. Love, 
jealousy, hatred, ambition, pride, revenge are too often elevated 
into the rank of splendid virtues, and form a dazzling system of 
worldly morality, in direct contradiction to the spirit of that reli- 
gion whose characteristics are ''charity, meekness, peaceableness, 
long-suffering, gentleness, forgiveness." '' The fruits of the Spirit'' 
and the fruits of the Stage, if the parallel were followed up, as it 
might easily be, would perhaps exhibit as pointed a contrast as 
human imagination could conceive. 

A learned and witty friend, who thought differently on this 



304 MORE. [WILLIAM IV. 

subject, once asked me if I went so far as to think it necessary to 
try the merit of a song or a play by the Ten Commandments ? 
To this may we not venture to answer that neither a song nor a 
play should at least contain anything hostile to the Ten Command- 
ments ? — that, if harmless merriment be not expected to advance 
religion, we must take care that it do not oppose it? — that, if we 
concede that our amusements are not expected to make us better 
than we are, ought we not to condition that they do not make us 
worse than they find us ? 

We cannot be too often reminded that we are, to an incon- 
ceivable degree, the creatures of habit. Our tempers are not prin- 
cipally governed, nor our characters formed, by single marked 
actions ; nor is the color of our lives often determined by promi- 
nent detached circumstances ; but the character is gradually 
moulded by a series of seemingly insignificant, but constantly 
recurring practices, which, incorporated into our habits, become 
part of ourselves. * » * 

But it will be said, perhaps, all this rigor may be very suitable 
to enthusiasts and fanatics, to the vulgar, the retired, and the 
obscure; but would you exclude the more liberal and polished 
part of society from the delight and instruction which may be 
derived from the great masters of the human heart, from Shak- 
speare particularly ? 

On this subject I think myself called upon to offer my opinion, 
such as it is, as unreservedly as I have taken the liberty of doing 
on the points considered in the former part of this preface. I 
think, then, that there is a substantial difference between seeing 
and reading a dramatic composition; and that the objections which 
lie so strongly against the one are not, at least in the same degree, 
applicable to the other. Or rather, while there is an essential 
and inseparable danger attendant on dramatic exhibitions, let the 
matter of the drama be ever so innocent, the danger in reading a 
play arises solely from the improper sentiments contained in it. 

I trust I have sufficiently guarded against the charge of incon- 
sistency, even though I venture to hazard an opinion that, in 
company with a judicious friend or parent, many scenes of Shak- 
speare may be read not only without danger, but with improve- 
ment. Far be it from me to wish to abridge the innocent delights 
of life where they may be enjoyed with benefit to the understand- 
ing, and without injury to the principles. Women especially, 
whose walk in life is so circumscribed, and whose avenues of in- 
formation are so few, may, I conceive, learn to know the world 
with less danger, and to study human nature with more advan- 
tage, from the perusal of selected parts of this incomparable 



1830-1837.] MORE. 305 

genius, than from most other attainable sources.^ I would in this 
view consider Shakspcare as a philosopher as well as poet, and I 
have been surprised to hear many pious people universally con- 
found and reprobate this poet with the common herd of dramatists 
and novelists. To his acute and sagacious mind every varied 
position of the human heart, every shade of discrimination in the 
human character, all the minuter delicacies, all the exquisite 
touches, all the distinct affections, all the contending interests, all 
the complicated passions of the heart of man seem, as far as is 
allowed to human inspection to discern them, to be laid open. 
Though destitute himself of the aids of literature and of the polish 
of society, he seems to have possessed by intuition all the advan- 
tages that various learning and elegant society can bestow; and 
to have combined the warmest energies of passion and the boldest 
strokes of imagination with the justest proprieties of reasoning 
and the exactest niceties of conduct. He makes every description 
a picture, and every sentiment an axiom. He seems to have 
known how every being which did exist would speak and act 
under every supposed circumstance and every possible situation; 
and how every being which did not exist must speak and act if 
ever he were to be called into actual existence. 

It is not because I consider Shakspeare as a correct moralist and 
an unerring guide, that I suggest the advantage of having the 
youthful curiosity allayed by a partial perusal, and under prudept 
inspection ; but it is for this very different reason, lest, by having 
that curiosity stimulated by the incessant commendation of this 
author, with which both books and conversation abound, young 
persons should be excited to devour in secret an author who, if 
devoured in the gross, will not fail, by many detached passages, 
to put a delicate reader in the situation of his own ancient Pistol 
when eating the leek ; that is, to swallow and execrate at the same 
time. 

Neither, as has been observed, is it to the present purpose to 
insist that theatrical amusements are the most rational; for the 
question we have undertaken to agitate is, whether they are blame- 
less? In this view the circumstance of going but seldom cannot 
satisfy a conscientious mind ; for, if the amusement be rights we 
may partake of it with moderation, as of other lawful pleasures ; 
if lorong^ we should never partake of it. 

Some individuals may urge that the amusements of the theatre 
never had the bad effects on their minds which they are said to 
have on the minds of others; but, supposing this to be really the 

iH "Bowdler's Family Shakspeare" should be in every household library. 

27 



306 MORE. [WILLIAM IV. 

case, which, however, may admit of doubt, ought not such persons 
to reflect that by their presence they sanction that which is obvi- 
ously hurtful to others, and which must, if so, be displeasing to 
God? ^ ^ 

The Stage is, by universal concurrence, allowed to be no indif- 
ferent thing. The impressions it makes on the mind are deep and 
strong ; deeper and stronger, perhaps, than are made by any other 
amusement. If, then, such impressions be in the general hostile 
to Christianity, the whole resolves itself into this short question — 
Should a Christian frequent it ? 



THE PROPER EDUCATION FOR FEMALES. 

Since, then, there is a season when the youthful must cease to 
be young, and the beautiful to excite admiration ; to learn how to 
grow old gracefully is, perhaps, one of the rarest and most valua- 
ble arts which can be taught to woman. And it must be con- 
fessed it is a most severe trial for those women to be called to lay 
down beauty, who have nothing else to take up. It is for this 
sober season of life that education should lay up its rich resources. 
However disregarded they may hitherto have been, they will be 
wanted now. When admirers fall away, and flatterers become 
mute, the mind will be compelled to retire into itself; and if it 
find no entertainment at home, it will be driven back again upon 
the world with increased force. Yet, forgetting this, do we not 
seem to educate our daughters exclusively for the transient period 
of youth, when it is to maturer life we ought to advert? Do we 
not educate them for a crowd, forgetting that they are to live at 
home ? for the world, and not for themselves ? for show, and not 
for use ? for time, and not for eternity ? 

Not a few of the evils of the present day arise from a new 
and perverted application of terms ; among these, perhaps, there 
is not one more abused, misunderstood, or misapplied, than the 
term accomplishments. This word, in its original meaning, signi- 
fies completeness, 2:)erfection. But I may safely appeal to the 
observation of mankind, whether they do not meet with swarms 
of youthful females, issuing from our boarding-schools, as well as 
emerging from the more private scenes of domestic education, who 
are introduced into the world under the broad and universal title 
of accompjJ islicd young ladies, of cdl of whom it cannot very truly 
and correctly be pronounced, that they illustrate the definition 
by a completeness which leaves nothing to be added, and a p^ 
fection which leaves nothing to be desired. ^ 



1 



1830-1837.] MORE. 307 

It would be well if wc would reflect that we have to educate not 
only rational but accountable beings; and, remembering this, 
should we not be solicitous to let our daughters learn of the well- 
taught, and associate with the well-bred? In training them, should 
we not carefully cultivate intellect, implant religion, and cherish 
modesty ? Then, whatever is engaging in manners would be the 
natural result of whatever is just in sentiment and correct in prin- 
ciple ; softness would grow out of humility, and external delicacy 
would spring from purity of heart. Then the decorums, the pro- 
prieties, the elegancies, and even the graces, as far as they are 
simple, pure, and honest, would follow as an almost inevitable 
consequence ; for to follow in the train of the Christian virtues, 
and not to take the lead of them, is the proper place which reli- 
gion assigns to the graces. 

Whether we have made the best use of the errors of our prede- 
cessors, and of our own numberless advantages, and whether the 
prevailing system be really consistent with sound policy, true taste, 
or Christian principle, it may be worth our while to inquire. 

Would not a stranger be led to imagine, by a view of the reign- 
ing mode of female education, that human life consisted of one 
universal holiday, and that the grand contest between the several 
competitors was, who should be most eminently qualified to excel 
and carry off the prize, in the various shows and games which 
were intended to be exhibited in it ? and to the exhibitors them- 
selves, would he not be ready to apply Sir Francis Bacon's obser- 
vation on the Olympian victors, that they were so excellent in 
these unnecessary things, that their perfection must needs have 
been acquired by the neglect of whatever was necessary ? 

It will be prudent to reflect that in all polished countries an 
entire devotedness to the fine arts has been one grand source of the 
corruption of the women; and so justly were these pernicious con- 
sequences appreciated by the Gr reeks, among whom these arts were 
carried to the highest possible perfection, that they seldom allowed 
them to be cultivated to a very exquisite degree by women of great 
purity of character. And while corruption, brought on by an ex- 
cessive cultivation of the arts, has contributed its full share to the 
decline of states, it has always furnished an infallible symptom of 
their impending fall. The satires of the most penetrating and 
judicious of the Roman poets, corroborating the testimonies of the 
most accurate of their historians, abound with invectives against 
the general depravity of manners introduced by the corrupt habits 
of female education, so that the modesty of the Roman matron, 
and the chaste demeanor of her virgin daughters, which, amidst 
the stern virtues of the state, were as immaculate and pure as the 



308 MORE. [^VILLIAM IV. 

honor of the Roman citizen, fell a sacrifice to the luxurious dissi- 
pation brought in by their Asiatic conquest; after which the 
females were soon taught a complete change of character. They 
were instructed to accommodate their talents of pleasing to the 
more vitiated tastes of the other sex ; and began to study every 
grace and every art which might captivate the exhausted hearts, 
and excite the wearied and capricious inclinations, of the men ; 
till, by a rapid, and at length complete enervation, the Roman 
character lost its signature, and through a quick succession of 
slavery, effeminacy, and vice, sunk into that degeneracy of which 
some of the modern Italian states now serve to furnish a too just 
specimen. 



THE HABIT OF ATTENTION. 

An early and unremitting zeal in forming the mind to a habit 
of attention, not only produces the outward expression of good 
breeding, as one of its incidental advantages ; but involves, or 
rather creates better qualities than itself; while vacancy and inat- 
tention not only produce vulgar manners, but are usually the indi- 
cation, if not of an ordinary, yet of a neglected understanding. To 
the habitually inattentive, books offer little benefit ; company af- 
fords little improvement ; while a self-imposed attention sharpens 
observation, and creates a spirit of inspection and inquiry which 
often lifts a common understanding to a degree of eminence in 
knowledge, sagacity, and usefulness, which indolent or negligent 
genius does not always reach. A habit of attention exercises intel- 
lect, quickens discernment, multiplies ideas, enlarges the power of 
combining images and comparing characters, and gives a faculty 
of picking up improvement from circumstances the least promis- 
ing ; and of gaining instruction from those slight but frequently 
recurring occasions which the absent and the negligent turn to no 
account. Scarcely anything or person is so unproductive as not 
to yield some fruit to the attentive and sedulous collector of ideas. 
But this is far from being the highest praise of such a person ; 
she who early imposes on herself a habit of strict attention to 
whatever she is engaged in, begins to wage early war with wan- 
dering thoughts, useless reveries, and that disqualifying train of 
busy, but unprofitable imaginations by which the idle are occupied, 
and the absent are absorbed. She who keeps her intellectual 
powers in action studies with advantage herself, her books, and 
the world. Whereas they, in whose undisciplined minds vagrant 
thoughts have been suffered to range without restriction on ordi- 



1830-1.S37.] MORE. 809 

nary occasions, will find they cannot easily call them home, when 
wanted to assist in higher duties. Thoughts, which are indulged 
in habitual wandering, will not be readily restrained in the solem- 
nities of public worship or of private devotion. 



QUALITIES THAT ARE PREFERABLE TO GENIUS. 

Patience, diligence, quiet and unfatigued perseverance, indus- 
try, regularity, and economy of time — as these are the dispositions 
I would labor to excite, so these are the qualities I would warmly 
commend. So far from admiring genius, or extolling its prompt 
effusions, I would rather intimate that excellence, to a certain 
degree, is in the power of every competitor ; that it is the vanity 
of overvaluing herself for supposed original powers, and slacken- 
ing exertion in consequence of that vanity, which often leaves the 
lively ignorant, and the witty superficial. A girl who overhears 
her mother tell the company that she is a genius, and is so quick 
that she never thinks of applying to her task till a few minutes 
before she is to be called to repeat it, will acquire such a confi- 
dence in her own abilities, that she will be advancing in conceit, 
as she is falling short in knowledge. Whereas, if she were made 
to suspect that her want of application rather indicated a defi- 
ciency than a superiority in her understanding, she would become 
industrious in proportion as she became modest; and by thus 
adding the diligence of the humble to the talents of the ingenious, 
she might really attain a degree of excellence, which mere quick- 
ness of parts, too lazy because too proud to apply, seldom attains. 

There is a custom among teachers, which is not the more right 
for being common ; they are apt to bestow an undue proportion 
of pains on children of the best capacity, as if only geniuses were 
worthy of attention. They should reflect that in moderate talents, 
carefully cultivated, we are, perhaps, to look for the chief happi- 
ness and virtue of society. If superlative genius had been gene- 
rally necessary, its existence would not have been so rare ; for 
Omnipotence could easily have made those talents common which 
we now consider as extraordinary, had they been necessary to the 
perfection of his plan. Besides, while we are conscientiously in- 
structing children of moderate capacity, it is a comfort to reflect 
that, if no labor will raise them to a high degree in the scale of 
intellectual distinction, yet they may be led on to perfection in 
that road in which '' a wayfaring man, though simple, shall not 
err." And when a mother feels disposed to repine that her family 

27* 



310 MORE. [WILLIAM IV. 

is not likely to exhibit a group of future wits and growing beauties, 
let her console herself by looking abroad into the world, where 
she will quickly perceive that the monopoly of happiness is not 
engrossed by beauty, nor that of virtue by genius. 






EFFECTS OF LIGHT READING. 

There is a certain precocity of mind which is much helped on 
by these superficial modes of instruction ; for frivolous reading 
will produce its correspondent effect in much less time than books 
of solid instruction ; the imagination being liable to be worked 
upon, and the feelings to be set agoing, much faster than the 
understanding can be opened and the judgment enlightened. A 
talent for conversation should be the result of instruction, not its 
precursor; it is a golden fruit when suffered to ripen gradually on 
the tree of knowledge ; but, if forced in the hotbed of a circulating 
library, it will turn out worthless and vapid in proportion as it 
was artificial and premature. Girls who have been accustomed 
to devour a multitude of frivolous books will converse and write 
with a far greater appearance of skill, as to style and sentiment, 
at twelve or fourteen years old, than those of a more advanced 
age, who are under the discipline of severer studies; but the 
former, having early attained to that low standard which had been 
held out to them, become stationary; while the latter, quietly pro- 
gressive, are passing through just gradations to a higher strain of 
mind ; and those who early begin with talking and writing like 
women, commonly end with thinking and acting like children. 



THE HAND OF GOD IN HISTORY. 

The religious reader of general history will observe the con- 
trolling hand of Providence in the direction of events; in turning 
the most unworthy actions and instruments to the accomplishment 
of his own purposes. She will mark Infinite Wisdom directing 
what appear to be casual occurrences to the completion of his own 
plan. She will point out how causes seemingly the most uncon- 
nected, events seemingly the most unpromising, circumstances 
seemingly the most incongruous, are all working together for some 
final good. She will mark how national as well as individual 
crimes are often overruled to some hidden purpose far different 
from the intention of the actors ; how Omnipotence can, and often 



1830-1837.] MORE. 311 

does bring about the best purposes by the worst instruments ; how 
the bloody and unjust conqueror is but " the rod of his wrath/' 
to punish or to purify his oflFending children ; how " the fury of 
the oppressor/'' and the suiferings of the oppressed, will one day, 
when the whole scheme shall be unfolded, vindicate His righteous 
dealings. She will explain to the less enlightened reader how 
Infinite Wisdom often mocks the insignificance of human great- 
ness, and the shallowness of human ability, by setting aside in- 
struments the most powerful and promising, while He works by 
agents comparatively contemptible. But she will carefully guard 
this doctrine of Divine Providence, thus working out his own 
purposes through the sins of his creatures, and by the instrumen- 
tality of the wicked, by calling to mind, while the ofibnder is but 
a tool in the hands of the great Artificer, " the woe denounced 
against him by whom the offence cometh V She will explain how 
those mutations and revolutions in states which appear to us so 
unaccountable, and how those operations of Providence which seem 
to us so entangled and complicated, all move harmoniously and 
in perfect order : that there is not an event but has its commis- 
sion ; not a misfortune which breaks its allotted rank ; not a trial 
which moves out of its appointed track. While calamities and 
crimes seem to fly in casual confusion, all is commanded or per- 
mitted; all is under the control of a wisdom which cannot err, of 
a goodness which cannot do wrong. 

To explain my meaning by a few instances. When the spirit 
of the youthful reader rises in honest indignation at that hypocri- 
tical piety which divorced an unoffending queen to make way for 
the lawful crime of our eighth Henry's marriage with Anne 
Boleyn; and when that indignation is increased by the more open 
profligacy which brought about the execution of the latter ; the 
instructor will not lose so fair an occasion for unfolding how, in 
the councils of the Most High, the crimes of the king were over- 
ruled to the happiness of the country ; and how, to this inauspi- 
cious marriage, from which the heroic Elizabeth sprang, the 
Protestant religion owed its firm stability. This view of the 
subject will lead the reader to justify the providence of God, with- 
out diminishing her abhorrence of the vices of the tyrant. 

She will explain to her how even the conquest of ambition, 
after having deluged a land with blood, involved the perpetrator 
in guilt, and the innocent victim in ruin, may yet be made the 
instrument of opening to future generations the ways to commerce, 
to civilization, to Christianity. She may remind her, as they are 
following Caesar in his invasion of Britain, that, whereas the con- 
queror fancied he was only gratifying his own inordinate ambition, 



312 MORE. [WTLLTAM IV. 

extending the flight of the Roman eagle, immortalizing his own 
name, and proving that "this world was made for Caesar;" he 
was in reality becoming the effectual, though unconscious instru- 
ment of leading a land of barbarians to civilization and to science ; 
and was, in fact, preparing an island of pagans to embrace the reli- 
gion of Christ. She will inform her that, when afterwards the 
victorious country of the same Caesar had made Judea a Roman 
province, and the Jews had become its tributaries, the Romans 
did not know, nor did the indignant Jews suspect, that this cir- 
cumstance was operating to the confirmation of an event the most 
important the world ever witnessed. 

For, when " Augustus sent forth a decree that all the world 
should be taxed,'' he vainly thought he was only enlarging his 
own imperial power, whereas he was acting in unconscious sub- 
servience to the decree of a higher Sovereign, and was helping to 
ascertain, by a public act, the exact period of Christ's birth, and 
furnishing a record of his extraction from that family from which 
it was predicted by a long line of prophets that he should spring. 
Herod's atrocious murder of the innocents has added an additional 
circumstance for the confirmation of our faith ; the incredulity of 
Thomas has strengthened our belief; nay, the treachery of Judas, 
and the injustice of Pilate, were the human instruments employed 
for the salvation of the world. 



THE END OF FEMALE EDUCATION. 

The chief end to be proposed in cultivating the understandings 
of women is to qualify them for the practical purposes of life. 
Their knowledge is not often, like the learning of men, to be repro- 
duced in some literary composition, and never in any learned pro- 
fession ; but it is to come out in conduct : it is to be exhibited in 
life and manners. A lady studies, not that she may qualify 
herself to become an orator or a pleader ; not that she may learn 
to debate, but to act. She is to read the best books, not so much 
to enable her to talk of them, as to bring the improvement which 
they furnish to the rectification of her principles and the forma- 
tion of her habits. The great uses of study to a woman are to 
enable her to regulate her own mind, and to be instrumental to 
the good of others. 

To woman, therefore, whatever be her rank, I would recom- 
mend a predominance of those more sober studies, which, not 
having display for their object, may make her wise without 
vanity, liappy without witnesses, and content without panegy- 



1830-1837.] MORE. 313 

rists ; the exercise of whicli may not bring celebrity, but will im- 
prove usefulness. She should pursue every kind of study which 
will teach her to elicit truth ; which will lead her to be intent 
upon realities, will give precision to her ideas, will make an exact 
mind. She should cultivate every study which, instead of stimu- 
lating her sensibility, will chastise it ; which will neither create 
an excessive nor a false refinement; which will give her definite 
notions; will bring the imagination under dominion; will lead her 
to think, to compare, to combine, to methodize; which will confer 
such a power of discrimination, that her judgment shall learn to 
reject what is dazzling, if it be not solid ; and to prefer, not what 
is striking, or bright, or new, but what is just. That kind of 
knowledge which is rather fitted for home consumption than 
foreign exportation, is peculiarly adapted to women. ^ 

There have not been wanting ill-judging females, who have 
affected to establish an unnatural separation between talents and 
usefulness, instead of bearing in mind that talents are the great 
appointed instruments of usefulness : who have acted as if know- 
ledge were to confer on woman a kind of fantastic sovereignty, 
which should exonerate her from the discharge of female duties ; 
whereas, it is only meant the more eminently to qualify her for 
the performance of them. A woman of real sense will never 
forget that, while the greater part of her proper duties are such 
as the most moderately gifted may fulfil with credit — since Pro- 
vidence never makes that to be very difficult which is generally 
necessary; yet that the most highly endowed are equally bound 
to fulfil them ; and let her remember that the humblest of these 
offices, performed on Christian principles, are wholesome for the 
minds even of the most enlightened, as they tend to the casting 
down of those '•^ high imaginations" which women of genius are 
too much tempted to indulge. 

For instance, ladies whose natural vanity has been aggravated 
by a false education, may look down on economy as a vulgar 
attainment, unworthy of the attention of a highly cultivated intel- 
lect ; but this is the false estimate of a shallow mind. Economy, 
such as a woman of fortune is called on to practise, is not merely 
the petty detail of small daily expenses, the shabby curtailments and 
stinted parsimony of a little mind, operating on little concerns; 
but it is the exercise of a sound judgment exerted in the compre- 

* May I be allowed to strengthen my own opinion with the authority of Dr. 
Johnson, that atoomaii cannot have too oiuich arithmetic? It is a solid, prac- 
tical acquirement, in which tliere is much use and little display ; it is a quiet, 
sober kind of knowledge, which she acquires for herself and her family, and 
not for the world.— H. M. 



314 MORE. [WILLIAM TV. 

hensive outline of order, of arrangement, of distribution ; of regu- 
lations by which alone well-governed societies, great and small, 
subsist. She who has the best regulated mind will, other things 
being equal, have the best regulated family. As, in the superin- 
tendence of the universe, wisdom is seen in its effects, ; and as, in 
the visible works of Providence, that which goes on with such 
beautiful regularity is the result not of chance, but of design ; so 
that management which seems the most easy is commonly the 
consequence of the best concerted plan ; and a well-concerted plan 
is seldom the offspring of an ordinary mind. A sound economy 
is a sound understanding brought into action ; it is calculation 
realized; it is the doctrine of proportion reduced to practice; it is 
foreseeing consequences, and guarding against them ; it is expect- 
ing contingencies, and being prepared for them. 

The truth is, women who are so puffed up with the conceit of 
talents as to neglect the plain duties of life, will not frequently be 
found to be women of the best abilities. And here may the 
author be allowed the gratification of observing that those women 
of real genius and extensive knowledge, whose friendship has con- 
ferred honor and happiness on her own life, have been, in general, 
eminent for economy and the practice of domestic virtues ; and 
have risen superior to the poor affectation of neglecting the duties 
and despising the knowledge of common life, with which literary 
women have been frequently, and not always unjustly, accused. 



GOD RULES THE NATIONS, AND EDUCES GOOD FROM ILL. 

That reader looks to little purpose over the eventful page of his- 
tory who does not accustom himself to mark therein the finger of 
the Almighty, governing kings and kingdoms; prolonging or con- 
tracting the duration of empires; tracing out beforehand, in the 
unimpeachable page of the prophet Daniel,^ an outline of succes- 
sive empires, which subsequent events have realized with the most 
critical exactness; and describing their eventual subservience to 

* The parts of the book of Daniel chiefly alluded to are Nebuchadnezzar's 
dream, and Daniel's interpretation of it in the second chapter ; and his own 
vision of the four beasts, in the eighth. These two passages alone, preserved, 
as thej^ have been, by the most inveterate enemies of Christianity, amount to 
an irrefragable demonstration that our religion is divine. One of the most 
ancient and most learned opposers of Revelation is said to have denied the 
possibility of these prophecies having existed before the events ; but we know 
they did exist, and no modern infidel dares to dispute it. But, in admitting 
this, howev'er they may take refuge in their own inconsequence of mind, they 
inevitablv. thousrh indirectly- allow the truth of Christianity. 



1880-1887.] MORE. 315 

the spiritual kingdom of the Messiah, with a circumstantial accu- 
racy which the well-informed Christian, who is versed in Scripture 
language, and whose heart is interested in the subject, reads with 
unutterable and never-ceasing astonishment. It is, in fact, this 
wonderful correspondence which gives its highest value to the 
more ancient half of the historic series. What would it profit 
us, at this day, to learn from Xenophon that the Assyrian mon- 
arch had subjugated all those countries, with the exception of 
Media, which spread eastward from the Mediterranean, if it were 
not that, by this statement, he confirms that important portion of 
sacred and prophetic history ? And to what solidly useful purpose 
would the sarbe historian's detail of the taking of Babylon be ap- 
plicable, if it did not forcibly, as well as minutely illustrate the 
almost equally detailed denunciations of the prophet Isaiah ? It 
was partly for the purpose of elucidating this correspondence 
between sacred prophecy and ancient history, and showing by how 
regular a providential chain the successive empires of the ancient 
world were connected with each other, and ultimately with Chris- 
tianity, that the excellent Rollin composed his well-known work; 
and the impression which his researches left upon his own mind 
may be seen in those sublimely pious remarks with which his last 
volume is concluded. 

A careful perusal of the historical and prophetical parts of 
Scripture will prepare us for reading profane history with great 
advantage. In the former, we are admitted within the veil, we 
are informed how the vices of nations drew down on them the 
wrath of the Almighty ; and how some neighboring potentate was 
employed as the instrument of divine vengeance ; how his ambi- 
tion, his courage, and military skill, were but the means of fulfil- 
ling the divine prediction, or of inflicting the divine punishment ; 
how, when the mighty conqueror, the executioner of the sentence 
of Heaven, had performed his assigned task, he was put aside, and 
was himself, perhaps, in his turn, humbled and laid low. Such 
are the familiar incidents of historic and prophetic Scripture. 

Do we then mean to admit that the Almighty approves of these 
excesses in individuals, by which his wisdom often works for the 
general benefit ? God forbid ! Nothing, surely, could be less 
approved by Him than the 'licentiousness and cruelty of our 
eighth Henry, though He overruled those enormities for the ad- 
vantage of the community, and employed them, as his instru- 
ments, for restoring good government, and for introducing, and at 
length establishing, the Reformation. England enjoys the inesti- 
mable blessing, but the monarch is not the less responsible per- 
sonally for his crimes. Wc are equally certain that God did not 



316 MORE. [WILLIAM IV. 

approve of the insatiable ambition of Alexander, or of his incre- 
dible acquisition of territory by means of unjust wars. Yet, from 
that ambition, those wars and^hose conquests, how much may the 
condition of mankind have been meliorated ? The natural humani- 
ty of this hero, which he had improved by the study of philosophy, 
under one of the greatest masters in the world, disposed him to 
turn his conquests to the benefit of mankind. He founded seventy 
cities, says his historian, so situated as to promote commerce and 
dijffuse civilization. Plutarch observes that, had those nations not 
been conquered, Egypt would have had no Alexandria ; Mesopo- 
tamia no Seleucia. He also informs us that Alexander introduced 
marriage into one conquered country, and agriculture'into another ; 
that one barbarous nation, which used to eat their parents, was 
led by him to reverence and maintain them ; that he taught the 
Persians to respect, and not to marry, their mothers — the Scythians 
to bury, and not to eat, their dead. 

To adduce one or two instances more, where thousands might 
be adduced. Did the Almighty approve those frantic wars 
which arrogated to themselves the name of holy ? Yet, with all 
the extravagance of the enterprise, and the ruinous failure which 
attended its execution, many beneficial consequences, as has been 
already intimated, were permitted, incidentally, to grow out of 
them. The Crusaders, * as their historians demonstrate,^ beheld 
in their march countries in which civilization had made a greater 
progress than in their own. They saw foreign manufactures in a 
state of improvement to which they had not been accustomed at 
home. They perceived remains of knowledge in the East, of 
which Europe had almost lost sight. Their native prejudices were 
diminished in witnessing improvements to which the state of 
their own country presented comparative barbarity. The first 
faint gleam of light dawned on them, the first perceptions of taste 
and elegance were awakened, and the first rudiments of many an 
art were communicated to them by this personal acquaintance with 
more polished countries. Their views of commerce were improved, 
and their means of extending it were enlarged. 

It is scarcely necessary to add that the excess to which the popes 
carried their usurpation, and the Romish clergy their corruptions, 
was, by- the Providence of God, thS immediate cause of the Re- 
formation. The taking of Constantinople by the Turks, though, 
in itself, a most deplorable scene of crimes and calamities, became 
the occasion of most important benefits to our countries, by com- 
pelling the only accomplished scholars then in the world to seek 

» See especially Robertson's State of Europe. 



1830-1837.] WILBERFORCE. 317 

an asylum in the western parts of Europe. To these countries 
they carried with them the Greek Language, which ere long proved 
one of the providential means of introducing the most important 
event that has occurred since the first establishment of Chris- 
tianity. 

If, therefore, God often ^^ educes good from ill," yet man has 
no right to count upon his always doing it, in the same degree in 
which he appoints that good shall be productive of good. To 
resume the illustration, therefore, from a few of the instances 
already adduced — what an extensive blessing might Alexander, 
had he acted with other views and to other ends, have proved to 
that world whose happiness he impaired by his ambition, and 
whose morals he corrupted by his example ! How much more 
effectually, and immediately, might the Reformation have been 
promoted, had Henry, laying aside the blindness of prejudice, 
and subduing the turbulence of passion, been the zealous and 
consistent supporter of the Protestant cause; the virtuous husband 
of one virtuous wife, and the parent of children all educated in 
the sound principles of the Reformation ! Again, had the popes 
effectually reformed themselves, how might the unity of the 
church have been promoted ; and even the schisms, which have 
arisen in Protestant communities, been diminished ! It would be 
superfluous to recapitulate other instances ; these, it is presumed, 
being abundantly sufficient to obviate any charge of the most 
distant approach towards the fatal doctrine of Necessity. 



WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, 1759-1833. 

This renowned philanthropist was born at Hull, on the 24th of August, 
1759. His father, a merchant of that town, died before his son had com- 
pleted his tenth year, and he was committed to the care of a paternal uncle, 
on whose death the ample patrimony inherited from his father was largely 
increased. This uncle's wife was a very pious woman, and a great admirer 
of Whitfield's preaching; and under her care he acquired a familiarity 
with the sacred writings; and a habit of devotion of which the results were 
perceptible throughout the whole of his mature life. While at school he 
gave a remarkable indication of the character by which his future life was 
to be distinguished — he sent a letter to the editor of the York paper, "in 
jbondemnation of the odious traffic in human flesh." From school he was 
transferred, at the age of seventeen, to St John's College, Cambridge, 

28 



318 WILBERFORCE. [WILLIAM IV. 

of which, in his diary, he gives no very favorable account. On leaving 
college, he immediately entered upon active life, being, in 1780, sent by his 
own town of Hull to Parliament, when he had just completed his twenty- 
first year. He soon found his way into the highest circles of fashionable 
and political society, and in the autumn of 1 783 he set out for a tour in France 
with Mr. Pitt, with whom he had formed an acquaintance at Cambridge — 
an acquaintance that ripened into a friendship that lasted through life. He 
returned in 1784, and in the latter part of the same year he went again on 
the continent, accompanied by the celebrated Isaac Milner, Dean of Carlisle. 
This excursion forms a memorable era in his life ; since, through the influ- 
ence of Milner, his early impressions of religion, which had been greatly 
dissipated by his political life, were fully revived, and a deep and fervent 
piety took entire possession of his mind, and regulated the whole of his 
future conduct. 

In the year 1787, he entered upon his labors in that great cause with 
which his name will forever be associated — the abolition of the slave trade. 
To that holy cause he now dedicated his days and nights, even to his closing 
hours. In the year 1789, he first proposed the abolition of the slave trade 
to the House of Commons in "a speech which Burke rewarded with one 
of those imperishable eulogies which he alone had the skill and the authority 
to pronounce ;' and the zeal, the patience, the talents and courage which he 
displayed during the many dispiriting delays and formidable difficulties 
which he had to encounter before the cause of justice and humanity finally 
triumphed, are above all praise. "^ In 1797, he published his celebrated 

* "But a victory over Guinea merchants,"' says the " Edinburgh Review," 
" was not to be numbered among the triumphs of eloquence. The slave-traders 
triumphed by an overwhehning majority. In the political tumults of those 
days the voice of humanity was no longer audible, and common sense ceased 
to discharge its ofRce." The English abolitionists had much to contend with — 
but then thej'- had a host of good and eloquent and learned men on their side. 
They had Burke, and Pitt, and Fox, and Wilberforce, and Brougham in Par- 
liament : — they had Cowper, Montgomery, Coleridge, Campbell, Hannah 
More, and many others in the higher walks of literature : and they had a large 
number of the clergy, especially of the " dissenters." The press, too, was open 
to them to a great extent. Let us, then, never despair of the ultimate triumph 
of truth, however numerous and influential they may be who combine to stop 
its onward march ! 

^ Amongst the letters of encouragement addressed to Mr. Wilberforce, is 
one written by John Wesley, from his death bed, dated February 24, 1791. 
As they are probably the last written words of that extraordinary man, I 
subjoin them here. 

My dear sir — Unless Divine Power has raised you up to be ^% Atkanasius 
contra nmivdum^ I see not how you can go through your glorious enterpris^e, 
in opposing that execrable villany which is the scandal of religion, of England, 
and of human nature. Unless God has raised you up for this verj'- thing, you 
will be worn out by the opposition of men and devils ; and if God be for you, 
who can be against you ? Are all of them together stronger than God ? Oh ! 
be not weary of well-doing. Go on in the name of God, and in the power of 
his might, till even American slavery, the vilest thing that ever saw the sun, 
shall vanish away before it. That He who has guided you from your youth^ 
up may continue to strengthen you in this and alt things, is the prayer of, dea^B 
sir, your afiectionate servant, John Wesley. 



1830-1837.] WILBERFORCE. 319 

work on " Pra(^tical Christianity," which met with such remarkable suc- 
cess that not less than five editions were called for within the first six 
months;' and it exerted a most powerful influence in stemming the tide of 
irreligion and nominal Christianity. In 1807, after twenty years of anxiety 
and unremitting labor, he had the high gratification of seeing the slave 
trade abolished by act of Parliament. From this time forward, until he 
quitted the House of Commons, in the year 1825, his parliamentary labors 
were devoted to a ceaseless watchfulness over the interests of the African 
race, and he lived to witness the consummation of the struggle for the abo- 
lition of slavery throughout the British dominions. He died July 27, 1833, 
when within a month of completing his seventy- fourth year, and was in- 
terred in Westminster Abbey, nearihe tombs of Pitt, Fox, and Canning. 
"Few persons," says Lord Brougham, "have ever reached a higher or 
more enviable place in the esteem of their fellow-creatures, or have better 
deserved the place they had gained, than William Wilberforce. His im- 
mense influence was no doubt greatly owing to the homage paid to his 
personal character, but he possessed many other qualifications which must 
of themselves have raised him to a great eminence." As a public speaker, 
he enjoyed great and well-merited celebrity. Sir Samuel Romilly esteemed 
him "the most efficient speaker in the House of Commons;" and Pitt 
himself said repeatedly, "of all men I ever knew, Wilberforce has the 
greatest natural eloquence." But of what worth is eloquence when not 
joined to purity of character, and enlisted in the cause of God and of 
humanity ? Few think of William Wilberforce as an orator ; but as a phi- 
lanthropist his name will be revered by the good in all time to come.^ 

^ It is said that nearly one hundred editions have been printed in England, 
and it has been translated into the French, Italian, Spanish, and German 
languages. 

2 I cannot but subjoin here a few extracts from an admirable notice of his 
character, in the sixty-seventh volume of the " Edinburgh Review.'" " The 
basis of Mr. Wilberforce's natural character was an intense fellow-feeling with 
other men. No one more readily adopted the interests, sympathized with the 
affections, or caught even the transient emotions of those with whom he asso- 
ciated. To this vivid sympathy in all human interests and feelings were united 
the talents by which it could be most gracefully exliibited. Mr. Wilberforce 
possessed histrionic powers of the highest order. If any caprice of fortune 
' had called him to the stage, he would have ranked amongst its highest orna- 
ments. He would have been irresistible before a jury, and the most popular 
of preachers. His rich mellow voice, directed by an ear of singular accuracy, 
gave to his most familiar language a variety of cadence, and to his more serious 
discourse a depth of expression, which rendered it impossible not to listen. 
Pathos and drollery — solemn musings and playful fancies — yearnings of the 
soul over the tragic, and the most contagious mirth over the ludicrous events 
of life, all rapidly succeeding each other, and harmoniously because uncon- 
sciously blended, threw over his conversation a spell which no prejudice, 
dulness, or ill-humor could resist. The courtesy of the heart, and the refine- 
ment of the most polished society, united to great natural courage, and a not 
ungraceful consciousness of his many titles to respect, completed the charm 
which his presence infallibly exercised. 

" It is scarcely an exaggeration to say of him that God was in all his thoughts. 
He surveyed human life as the eye of an artist ranges over a landscape, re- 
ceiving innumerable intimations which escape any less practised observer. 



320 WILBERFORCE. [WILLTAM IV. 



THE ABOLITION Or THE SLAVE TRADE.^ 

Mr. Speaker — I cannot but persuade myself that whatever 
difference of opinion there may have been, we shall this day be at 
length unanimous. I cannot believe that a British House of Com- 
mons will give its sanction to the continuance of this infernal 
traffic, the African slave trade. We were for a while ignorant of 
its real nature; but it has now been completely developed, and 
laid open to your view in all its hirers. Never was there, indeed, 
a system so big with wickedness^ and cruelty ; it attains to the 
fullest measure of pure, unmixed, unsophisticated wickedness; and 
scorning all competition or comparison, it stands without a rival 
in the secure, undisputed possession of its detestable pre-eminence. 

But I rejoice, sir, to see that the people of G-reat Britain have 
stepped forward on this occasion, and expressed their sense more 
generally and unequivocally than in any instance wherein they 
have ever before interfered. I should in vain attempt to express 
to you the satisfaction with which it has filled my mind to see so 
great and glorious a concurrence, to see this great cause triumph- 
ing over all lesser distinctions, and substituting cordiality and 
harmony in the place of distrust and opposition. Nor have its 
effects amongst ourselves been in this respect less distinguished or 
less honorable. It has raised the character of Parliament. What- 
ever may have been thought or said concerning the unrestrained 
prevalency of our political divisions, it has taught surrounding 
nations, it has taught our admiring country, that there are subjects 
still beyond the reach of party. There is a point of elevation 
where we get above the jarring of the discordant elements that 
ruffle and agitate the vale below. In our ordinary atmosphere, 
clouds and vapors obscure the air, and we are the sport of a thou- 

In every faculty he recognized a sacred trust ; in every material object an 
indication of the Divine w^isdom and goodness ; in every human being an heir 
of immortality ; in every enjoyment a proof of the Divine benignity ; in every 
affliction an act of parental discipline. The early development of this habit 
of mind appears to have been attended with much dejection and protracted self- 
denial ; but the gay and social spirit of the man gradually resumed its dominion. 
A piety so profound w^as never so entirely free from asceticism. It was allied 
to all the pursuits and all the innocent pleasures of life. A fusion of religious 
with secular thoughts added to the spirit with which every duty was performed, 
and to the zest with which every enjoyment was welcomed; and the triumph 
of Christianity was eminently conspicuous in that inflexible constancy of pur- 
pose with which he pursued the great works of benevolence to which his life 
was consecrated. No aspirant for the honors of literature, or for the dignities 
of the woolsack, ever displayed more decision of character than marked his 
labors for the Abolition of the Slave Trade." 

' From his speech delivered on the 2d of April, 1792. 



1830-1837.] WILBERFORCE. 321 

sand conflicting winds and adverse currents; but here, we move 
in a higher region^ where all is pure, and clear, and serene, free 
from perturbation and discomposure — 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm ; 
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Here, then, on this august eminence, let us build the temple of 
benevolence; let us lay its foundation deep in truth and justice, 
and let the inscription on its gates be " peace and good will towards 
men/^ Here let us offer the first fruit of our prosperity ; here 
let us devote ourselves to the service of these wretched men, and go 
forth burning with a generous ardor to compensate, if possible, for 
the injuries we have hitherto brought on them. Let us heal the 
breaches we have made. Let us rejoice in becoming the happy 
instruments of arresting the progress of rapine and desolation, 
and of introducing into that immense country the blessings of 
Christianity, the comforts of civilized, and the sweets of social life. 
I am persuaded, sir, there is no man who hears me, who would 
not join with me in hailing the arrival of this happy period; who 
does not feel his mind cheered and solaced by the contemplation 
of these delightful scenes. 



THE REWARD ATTENDANT ON WELL-DOING. 

Mr. Speaker — I cannot but believe that the hour is at length 
come when we shall put a final period to the existence of this 
abominable — this unchristian traffic — the slave trade. But if, in 
this fond expectation, I should be unhappily mistaken, be assured, 
sir, I never will desert the cause; but to the last moment of my 
life, I will exert my utmost powers in the service of that unhappy 
country. In truth, if I were not to persevere, I must be dead to 
every generous emotion that can actuate and stimulate the mind 
of man. Can a noble object interest? or the consciousness of an 
honorable ofl&ce? What object so noble as this of relieving the 
miseries of thousands upon thousands of our fellow-creatures; 
introducing Christianity and civilization to a fourth part of the 
habitable globe ? I am, indeed, conscious of the honorable nature 
of the office I have undertaken, and grateful to God for having 
permitted me to take the lead in the communication of such ex- 
tended blessings. My task is one in which it is impossible to tire; 
my work repays itself: it fills my mind with complacency and 

28* 



322 WILBERFORCE. [ WILLIAM IV. 

peace. I lie down with it at night with composure, and rise to it 
in the morning with alacrity. If it obliges me to be conversant 
with scenes of wretchedness, this is but like visiting a hospital 
from motives of humanity, where your own feelings repay you for 
the pain you undergo. No, sir, no; I never will desist from this 
blessed work; but I cannot help persuading myself that there will 
be no call for my perseverance. I will not allow myself to doubt 
about the issue, and cheerfully await the event of your decision. 



THE EFFECTS OF RELIGION. 

When the pulse beats high, and we are flushed with youth, and 
health, and vigor; when all goes on prosperously, and success 
seems almost to anticipate our wishes, then we feel not the want 
of the consolations of religion : l»ut when fortune frowns, or friends 
forsake us; when sorrow, or sickness, or old age comes upon us, 
then it is that the superiority of the pleasures of religion is es- 
tablished over those of dissipation and vanity, which are ever apt 
to fly from us when we are most in want of their aid. Thefe is 
scarcely a more melancholy sight to a considerate mind than that 
of an old man who is a stranger to those only true sources of satis- 
faction. How aS"ecting, and at the same time how disgusting, is 
it to see such a one awkwardly catching at the pleasures of his 
younger years, which are now beyond his reach; or feebly attempt- 
ing to retain them, while they mock his endeavors and elude his 
grasp ! To such a one gloomily, indeed, does the evening of life 
set in ! All is sour and cheerless. He can neither look backward 
with complacency, nor forward with hope; while the aged Chris- 
tian, relying on the assured mercy of his Redeemer, can calmly 
reflect that his dismission is at hand; that his redemption draweth 
nigh. While his strength declines, and his faculties decay, he can 
quietly repose himself on the fidelity of God; and at the very 
entrance of the valley of the shadow of death, he can lift up an 
eye, dim perhaps and feeble, yet occasionally sparkling with hope, 
and confidently looking forward to the near possession of his hea- 
venly inheritance, " to those joys which eye hath not seen, nor ear 
heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive." 
What striking lessons have we had of the precarious tenure of all 
sublunary possessions ! Wealth, and power, and prosperity, how 
peculiarly transitory and uncertain ! But religion dispenses her 
choicest cordials in the seasons of exigence, in poverty, in exile, 
in sickness, and in death. The essential superiority of that sup- 



1830-1837.] COLERIDGE. 323 

port which is derived from religion is less felt, at least it is less 
apparent, when the Christian is in full possession of riches, and 
splendor, and rank, and all the gifts of nature and fortune. But 
when all these are swept away by the rude hand of time or the 
rough blasts of adversity, the true Christian stands, like the glory 
of the forest, erect and vigorous; stripped, indeed, of his summer 
foliage, but more than ever discovering to the observing eye the 
solid strength of his substantial texture. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772-1834. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "the most imaginative of modern poets," 
wa8 the son of the Rev. John Coleridge, Vicar of Ottery, and was born at 
that place, in the year 1772. Losing his father in early life, he obtained, 
by the kindness of a friend, a presentation to Christ Church Hospital, 
London. "I enjoyed," he says,' "the inestimable advantage of a very 
sensible, though at the same time a very severe master, the Rev. James 
Bowyer, who early moulded my taste to the preference of Demosthenes to 
Cicero, of Humer and Theocritus to Virgil, and again of Virgil to Ovid, 
&c." He made extraordinary advances in scholarship, and amassed a vast 
variety of miscellaneous knowledge, but in that random, desultory manner 
which through life prevented him from accomplishing what his great abili- 
ties qualified him for achieving. His reputation at Christ Church promised, 
a brilliant career at Cambridge, which university he entered in l'/90, in 
his nineteenth year. In 1794, he became acquainted with the poet Southey, 
then a student at Baliol College, Oxford, and a warm friendship soon 
ripened between them ; and at Bristol they formed the resolution, along 
with a third poet, Lovel, of founding what they termed a Pantisocracy, or 
a republic of pure freedom, on the banks cf the Susquehanna, in Pennsyl- 
vania. In 1795, the three poets married three sisters, the Misses Fricker, 
of Bristol, and thus the whole pantisocratic scheme was upset. 

After his marriage, Coleridge settled at Clevedon, near Bristol, and pro- 
jected many plans of industrious occupation in the fields of literature ; but 
he soon became tired of this retreat, and removed to Bristol, where he was 
materially aided in his designs of publication by that most generous and 
sympathizing publisher, Joseph Cotile. He first started a weekly political 
paper, called the " V/atchman," most of which he wrote himself; but 
from his indolent irregularity, the work stopped at the tenth number. 
Faili:]g in this, he retired, in the latter part of 1796, to a cottage in Nether 
Stowey, in Somersetshire, on the grounds of his friend and benefactor, Mr. 

* Biographia Liteiaria. 



324 COLERIDGE. [WILLIAM IV> 

Poole, and near Mr. Wordsworth. He was at this time in the habit of 
contributing verses to one of the London papers, as a means of subsistence ; 
and it was while residing here that the greater part of his poems were com- 
posed, though many were not published till later : these were his " Lyrical 
Ballads," " Christabel," the "Ancient Mariner," and his tragedy of 
" Remorse." 

In 1798, he was enabled, through the munificence of Mr. Thomas Wedge- 
wood, to travel in Germany, and to study at some of its famed universities. 
He was very industrious in the study of the literature and philosophy of 
that country, and may be considered as the introducer of German philoso- 
phy to the notice of British scholars. After his return from Germany, 
Coleridge settled with his family at Keswick, in Cumberland, near the 
" Lakes," in which region Wordsworth and Southey resided, and hence 
the appellation of " Lake Poets," given to these three individuals. In the 
mean time, his habit of opium-eating, into which he had been seduced 
from its apparent medicinal effects, had gained tremendously upon him, 
and had undermined his health. There is no portion of literary history 
more sad than that which reveals the tyrannical power which that dreadful 
habit had over him, and his repeated but vain struggles to overcome it. It 
made him its victim, and held him, bound hand and foot, wiih a giant's 
strength.' In consequence of his enfeebled health, he went to Malta in 
1804, and returned in 1806. From this period till about 1816, he led a sort 
of wandering life, sometimes with one friend and sometimes with another, 
and much of the time separated from his family, supporting himself by 
lecturing, publishing, and writing for the London papers. The great de- 
fect in his character was the want of resoluteness of will. He saw ihat his 
pernicious habit was destroying his own happiness, and that of those dearest 
to him, entangling him in meanness, deceit, and dishonesty, and yet he 
had not the strength of will to break it off". 

In 1816, he placed himself under the care of Mr. Gilman, a physician in 
Highgate, London, and with this generous family he resided till his death. 
Most of his prose works he published between the years 1817 and 1825 — 
the two "Lay Sermons," the " Biographia Literaria," the "Friend," in 
three volumes, and the "Aids to Reflection," and the "Constitution of 
the Church and State." After his death, which took place on the 25ih of 
July, 1834, collections were made of his " Table'Talk," and other "Lite- 
rary Remains."^ 

' Read the painfully interesting- account in "Cottle's Reminiscences," and 
the most faithful Christian letter of Cottle to Coleridge, together with the 
ansv^^er of the latter. 

- A few months before his death, Mr. Coleridge wrote his own humble and 
affectionate epitaph : — 

Stop, Christian passer-by ! Stop, child of God, 
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he; — 
O, lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C. ! 
That he, who many a year with toil of breath 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 
Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame 
He asked, and hoped in Christ. Do thou the same. 



1830-1837.] COLERIDGE. 325 

Few men have exerted a greater influence upon the thinking mind of 
the nineteenth century than Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whether we regard 
his poetry or his prose writings. He wrote, however, for the scholastic (ew 
rather than for the reading many. Hence he has never become what may 
be called a popular writer, and never will be. But if he exerted not so 
great an influence upon the popular mind directly, he did indirectly through 
those who have studied and admired his works, and have themselves 
popularized his own recondite conceptions. His "Aids to Reflection in 
the Formation of a Manly Character," is a book full of wisdom, of sound 
Christian morality, and of the most jast observations on life and duty; 
and from his "Series of Essays — the Friend," might be culled gems of 
rich, and beautiful, and profound thought that would make a volume of 
priceless worth. His poetry unites great vividness of fancy to a lofty ele- 
vation of moral feeling, and unsurpassed melody of versification; but then 
much of it must be said to be obscure. He himself, in fact, admits this, 
when he says, in a later edition of one of his poems, that where he appears 
unintelligible, "the deficiency is in the reader."^ Still, there is enough 
that is clear left to delight, instruct, and exalt the mind ; and few authors 
have left to the world, both in prose and poetry, so much delicious and in- 
vigorating food on which the worn spirit may feed with pleasure and profit, 
and gain renev/ed strength for the conflicts of the world, as this philosophic 
poet and poetic philosopher. 

In conversation, Coleridge particularly shone. Here, probably, he never 
had his equal, so that he gained the title of the " Great Conversationalist." 
"It is deeply to be regretted," says an admiring critic, " that his noble 
genius was, to a great extent, frittered away in conversation, which he could 
pour forth, unpremcditatedly, for hours, in uninterrupted streams of vivid, 
dazzling, original thinking." "Did you ever hear me preach?" said 
Coleridge to Lamb. " I never heard you do anything else," was his 
friend's reply. Certainly through this medium he watered with his in- 
structions a large circle of discipleship ; but what treasures of thought has 
the world lost by his unwillingness to make his pen the mouthpiece of his 
mind !' 

' In reference to that singularly wild and striking poem, " The Ancient 
Mariner," he is said to have written the following epigram addressed to 
himself: — 

" Your poem must eternal be, 
Dear sir ! it cannot fail ; 
For 'tis incomprehensible, 
And without head or tail." 
"^ The following is the testimony of Dr. Dibdin to Coleridge's conversational 
powers: "I shall never forget the effect his conversation made upon me at 
the first meeting, at a dinner party. It struck me as something not only quite 
out of the ordinary course of things, but an intellectual exhibition altogether 
matchless. The viands were unusually costly, and the banquet was at once 
rich and varied ; but there seemed to be no dish like Coleridge's conversation 
to feed upon — and no information so instructive as his own. The orator rolled 
himself up, as it were, in his chair, and gave the most unrestrained indulgence 
to his speech ; and how fraught with acuteness and originality was that speech, 
and in what copious and eloquent periods did it (low. The auditors seemed 



11 

326 COLERIDGE. [WILLIAM IV. 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. 

Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have Iheir sources in the foot 
of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rusli down its sides ; and within a 
few paces of the glaciers the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, 
with its "flowers of lov^eliest blue." 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount! I gaz'd upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfus'd, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to heaven. 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the Vale! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Coherald ! wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 



to be wrapt in wonder and delight, as one conversation, more profound or 
clothed in more forcible language than another, fell from his tongue. He spoke 
nearly for two hours with unhesitating and uninteiTupted fluency. As I re- 
turned homewards to Kensington, I thought a second Johnson had visited the 
earth to make wise the sons of men ; and regretted that I could not exercise 
the powers of a second Boswell to record the wisdom and the eloquence that 
fell from the orator's lip.s." 



1830-1837.] COLERIDGE. 327 

Who sank thy sunless pilkiis deep in earth ? 
Who fiU'd thy countenance with rosy light 1 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams'? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who caird you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
Forever shattered, and the same forever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen and have resf? 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ! 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element! 
UtterVorth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast— 
Thou too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou. 
That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow-travelling with dim eyes suff'us'd with tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — rise, O ever rise. 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



328 COLERIDGE. [WILLIAM IV 



TO MY INFANT. 

Dear babe, thou sleepcst cradled by my side, 
Whose fientle breathings, heard in this deep cahn, 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought! 
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness thus to look at thee, 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore. 
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
But thou, my babe, shait wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags; so shalt thou see and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language which thy God 
Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
Great universal teacher! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and, by giving, make it ask. 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eyedrops fall, 
Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
Quietly shining to the quiet moon. 



QUALITIES ESSENTIAL TO THE TEACHER. 

O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule. 
And sun thee in the light of happy faces; 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces. 
And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, so 
Do these upbear the little world below 
Of education — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show, 
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope. 
And robes that touching as adovvn they flow, 
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. 



1830-1837.] COLERIDGE. 329 

O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie, 

Love too will sink and die. 
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes. 
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies; 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. 
Yet haply there will come a weary day. 

When overtasked at length 
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
Stands the mute sister. Patience, nothing loath, 
And lx)th supporting, does the work of both. 



TO AN INFANT. 

Ah, cease thy tears and sobs, my little life ! 
I did but snatch away the unclasped knife: 
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye, 
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry. 
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe, 
Tutored by pain each source of pain to know ! 
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire 
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire; 
Alike the good, the ill off"end thy sight. 
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright ! 
Untaught, yet wise, 'mid all thy brief alarms 
Thou closely clingest to thy mother's arms, 
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast 
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest! 
Man's breathing miniature! thou mak'st me sigh— 
A babe thou art — and such a thing am I ! 
To anger rapid, and as soon appeased — 
For trifles mourning, and by trifles pleased- 
Break friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow, 
Yet snatch what coals of fire on pleasure's altar glow . 
O thou that rearest, with celestial aim, 
The future seraph in my mortal frame. 
Thrice holy faith ! whatever thorns I meet, 
As on I totter with unpractised feet, 
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee. 
Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy ! 



REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT. 

Low was our pretty cot: our tallest rose 

Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear 

29 



330 COLERIDGE. [WILLIAM IV. 

At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, 
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the porch 
Thick jasmins twined; the little landscape round 
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 
It was a spot which you might aptly call 
The Valley of Seclusion ! once I saw 
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa's citizen : methought it calmed 
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
With wiser feelings : for he paused and looked 
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around, 
Then eyed our cottage and gazed round again. 
And sighed, and said it was a blessed place. 
And we ivere blessed. Oft with patient ear 
Long-listening to the viewless skylark's note, 
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen, 
Gleaming on sunny wing,) in whisper'd tones 
I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
The inobtrusive song of happiness, 
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard 
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd 
And the heart listens." 

But the time, when first, 
From that low dell, steep up the stony mount 
I climb'd with perilous toil and reach'd the top, 
Oh ! what a goodly scene! Hei-e the bleak mount, 
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep ; 
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields; 
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd, 
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks; 
And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood. 
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city spire ; 
The channel there, the islands and white sails, 
Dim coasts and cloud-like hills and shoreless ocean — 
It seeni'd like Omnipresence ! God, methought, 
Had built him there a temple : the whole world 
Seem'd imag'd in its vast circumference. 
No wish profan'd my overwhelmed heart. 
Blest hour! It was a luxury — to be! 

Ah! quiet dell! dear cot! and mount sublime ! 
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right. 
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, 
That I should dream away the intrusted hours. 
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 
And he that works me good with unmov'd face 
Does it but half; he chills me while he aids ; 
My benefactor, not my brother man. 



1880 1837. J » COLERIDGE. 331 

Yet even this, this cold beneficence 

Praise, praise it, O my soul ! oft as thou scann'st 

The Sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe! 

Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, 

Nursing in some delicious solitude 

Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ; 

I therefore go, and join, head, heart, and hand, 

Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 

Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 

Yet oft when, after honorable toil, 
Rests the tired mind, and, waking, loves to dream, 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot ! 
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose, 
And myrtles, fearless of the mild sea air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet abode ! 
Ah ! had none greater! And that all had sucli ! 
h might be so — but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, Father ! Let thy kingdom come ! 



IMPORTANCE OF THE CORRECT USE OF TERMS. 

Felicity, in its proper sense, is but another word for fortunate- 
ness, or happiness ; and I can see no advantage in the improper use 
of words, when proper terms are to be found, but, on the contrary, 
much mischief. For, by familiarizing the mind to equivocal ex- 
pressions, that is, such as may be taken in two or more different 
meanings, we introduce confusion of thought, and furnish the 
sophist with his best and handiest tools. For the juggle of 
sophistry consists, for the greater part, in using a word in one 
sense in the premise, and in another sense in the conclusion. 
We should accustom ourselves to thinh and reason in precise and 
steadfast terms, even when custom, or the deficiency or the cor- 
ruption of the language, will not permit the same strictness in 
speaking. The mathematician finds this so necessary to the truths 
which he is seeking, that his science begins with, and is founded 
on, the definition of his terms. The botanist, the chemist, the 
anatomist, &c., feel and submit to this necessity at all costs, even 
at the risk of exposing their several pursuits to the ridicule of 
the many, by technical terms, hard to be remembered, and alike 
quarrelsome to the ear and the tongue. In the business of moral 
and religious reflection, in the acquisition of clear and distinct 
conceptions of our duties, and of the relations in which we stand 
to God, our neighbor, and ourselves, no such difficulties occur. 
At the utmost, we have only to rescue words, already existing 
and familiar, from the false or vague meanings imposed on them 



332 COLERIDGE. [ WILLIAM IV. 

by carelessness, or by the clipping and debasing misusage of the 
market. And surely happiness, duty, faith, truth, and final 
blessedness, are matters of deeper and dearer interest for all men 
than circles to the geometrician, or the characters of plants to the 
botanist, or the affinities and combining principle of the element- 
of bodies to the chemist, or even than the mechanism (fearfu^ 
and wonderful though it be !) of the perishable Tabernacle of thi 
Soul can be to the anatomist. Among the aids to reflection 
place the following maxim prominent: Let distinctness in expres 
sion advance side by side with distinction in thought. For one 
useless subtlety in our elder divines and moralists, I will produce 
ten sophisms of equivocation in the writings of our modern pre- 
ceptors ; and for one error resulting from excess in distinguishing 
the indifierent, I would show ten mischievous delusions from the 
habit of confounding the diverse. 

Aids to Reflection. 



THE DEPTH OF THE CONSCIENCE.* 

How deeply seated the conscience is in the human soul is seen 
in the effect which sudden calamities produce on guilty men, even 
when unaided by any determinate notion or fears of punishment 
after death. The wretched criminal, as one rudely awakened 
from a long sleep, bewildered with the new light, and half re- 
collecting, half striving to recollect a fearful something, he knows 
not what, but which he will recognize as soon as he hears the 
name, already interprets the calamities into j2<(7r/men^s, executions 
of a sentence passed by an invisible judge, as if the vast pyre of 
the last judgment were already kindled in an unknown distance, 
and some flashes of it, darting forth at intervals beyond the rest, 
were flying and lighting upon the face of his soul. The calamity 
may consist in loss of fortune, or character, or reputation ; but 
you hear no regrets from him. Remorse extinguishes all regret, 
and remorse is the implicit creed of the guilty. 

Aids to Reflection. 

^ " To set the outward actions right, though with an honest intention, and 
not so to regard and find out the inward disorder of the heart, whence that in 
the actions flows, is but to be still putting the index of a clock right with your 
finger, while it is foul, or out of order within, which is a continual business, 
and does no good. Oh I but a purified conscience, a soul renewed and re- 
fined in its temper and afTections, will make things go right without, in all 
the duties and acts of our callings." 

Leighton. 



1830-1837.] coLERirxiE. 333 



TRUTH MUST AND WILL PREVAIL. 

Monsters and madmen canonized, and Gralileo blind in a dun- 
geon ! It is not so in our times. Heaven be praised that in this 
respect, at least, we are, if not better, yet hetter off than our fore- 
fathers. But to what, and to whom (under Providence) do we 
owe the improvement? To any radical change in the moral 
affections of mankind in general ? In order to answer this ques- 
tion in the affirmative, I must forget the infamous empirics 
whose advertisements pollute and disgrace all our newspapers, and 
almost paper the walls of our cities ; and the vending of whose 
poisons and poisonous drams (with shame and anguish be it 
spoken) supports a shop in every market-town ! I must forget 
that other opprobrium of the nation, that mother vice, the lottery ! 
I must forget that a numerous class plead p)rudencc for keeping 
their fellow-men ignorant and incapable of intellectual enjoyments, 
and the revenue for upholding such temptations as men so igno- 
rant will not withstand — yes ! that even senators and officers of 
state hold forth the revenue as a sufficient plea for upholding, at 
every fiftieth door throughout the kingdom, temptations to the 
most pernicious vices. * * No ! Let us not deceive ourselves. 
Like the man who used to pull off his hat with great demonstra- 
tion of respect whenever he spoke of himself, we are fond of 
styling our own the enlightened age, though, as Jortin, I think, 
has wittily remarked, the golden age would ha more appropriate. 

To whom, then, do we owe our ameliorated condition ? To the 
successive few in every age (more, indeed, in one generation than 
in another, but relatively to the mass of mankind always few), 
who, by the intensity and permanence of their action, have com- 
pensated for the limited sphere within which it is at any one time 
intelligible, and whose good deeds posterity reverence in their 
results, though the mode in which we repair the inevitable waste 
of time, and the style of our additions, too generally furnish a 
sad proof how little we understand the principles. 

Still, however, there are truths so self-evident, or so immedi- 
ately and palpably deduced from those that are, or are acknow- 
ledged for such, that they are at once intelligible to all men who 
possess the common advantages of the social state; although by 
sophistry, by evil habits, by the neglect, fiilse persuasions, and 
impostures of an anti-christian priesthood, joined in one conspiracy 
with the violence of tyrannical governors, the understandings of 
men may become so darkened, and their consciences so lethargic, 

29* 



o34 COLERIDGE. [WILLIAM IV. 

that there may arise a necessity for the republication of these 
truths, and this, too, with a voice of loud alarm and impassioned 
warning. Such were the doctrines proclaimed by the first Christ- 
ians to the pagan world; such were the lightnings flashed by 
Wickliff, Huss, Luther, Calvin, Zuinglius, Latimer, and others, 
across the papal darkness; and such, in our own times, the agi- 
tating truths with which Thomas Clarkson and his excellent 
confederates, the Quakers, fought and conquered the legalized 
banditti of men-stealers, the numerous and powerful perpetrators 
and advocates of rapine, murder, and (of blacker guilt than either) 
slavery. Truths of this kind being indispensable to man, con- 
sidered as a moral being, are above all expedience, all accidental 
consequences : for, as sure as Grod is holy and man immortal, there 
can be no evil so great as the ignorance or disregard of them. 
It is the very madness of mock prudence to oppose the removal 
of a poisoned dish on account of the pleasant sauces or nutritious 
viands which would be lost with it ! The dish contains destruc- 
tion to that for which alone we ought to wish the palate to be 
gratified, or the body to be nourished. 

Luther felt, and preached, and wrote, and acted as beseemed a 
Luther to feel and utter and act. The truths, which had been 
outraged, he re-proclaimed in the spirit of outraged truth, at the 
behest of his conscience and in the service of the God of Truth. 
He did his duty, come good, come evil ! and made no question on 
which side the preponderance would be. In the one scale there was 
gold, and the impress thereon the image and superscription of 
the Universal Sovereign. In all the wide, and ever-widening 
commerce of mind with mind throughout the world, it is treason 
to refuse it. Can this have a counterweight ? The other scale 
indeed might have seemed full up to the very balance-yard ; but 
of what worth and substance were its contents? Were they 
capable of being counted or weighed against the former ? The 
conscience, indeed, is already violated when to moral good or evil 
we oppose things possessing no moral interest. Even if the con- 
science dared waive this her preventive veto, yet before we could 
consider the twofold results in the relations of loss and gain, it 
must be known whether their kind is the same or equivalent. 
They must first be valued, and then they may be weighed or 
counted, if they are worth it. But in the particular case at pre- 
sent before us, the loss is contingent and alien; the gain essential 
and the tree's own natural produce. The gain is permanent, and 
spreads through all times and places ; the loss but temporary, 
and, owing its very being to vice or ignorance, vanishes at the 
approach of knowledge and moral improvement. The gain 



1830-1837.] COLERIDGE. 335 

reaches all good men^ belongs to all that love light and desire an 
increase of light : to all, and of all timeS; who thank Heaven for 
the gracious dawn, and expect the noonday; who welcome the 
first gleams of spring, and sow their fields in confident faith of 
the ripening summer and the rewarding harvest-tide ! But the 
loss is confined to the unenlightened and the prejudiced — say, 
rather, to the weak and the prejudiced of a single generation. 
The prejudices of one age are condemned even by the prejudiced 
of the succeeding ages : for endless are the modes of folly, and 
the fool joins with the wise in passing sentence on all modes but 
his own. Who cried out with greater horror against the mur- 
derers of the prophets than those who likewise cried out, Crucify 
him ! crucify him ! The truth-haters of every future generation 
will call the truth-haters of the preceding ages by their true 
names, for even these the stream of time carries onward. In 
fine, truth, considered in itself, and in the effects natural to it, 
may be conceived as a gentle spring or water-source, warm from 
the genial earth, and breathinj: up into the snowdrift that is piled 
over and around its outlet, ft turns the obstacle into its own 
form and character, and as it makes its way, increases its stream. 
And should it be arrested in its course by a chilling season, it 
suffers delay, not loss, and awaits only for a change in the wind 
to awaken and again roll onwards. 

The Friend. 



MILTON. 

In Milton's mind itself there were purity and piety absolute; 
an imagination to which neither the past nor the present were 
interesting, except as far as they called forth and enlivened the 
great ideal in which and for which he lived ; a keen love of truth, 
which, after many weary pursuits, found a harbor in a sublime 
listening to the still voice in his own spirit, and as keen a love of 
his country, which, after a disappointment still more depressive, 
expanded and soared into a love of man as a probationer of im- 
mortality. These were, these alone could be, the conditions 
under which such a work as the '' Paradise Lost" could be con- 
ceived and accomplished. By a life-long study Milton had 
known — 

" What was of use to know, 
Wliat best to say could say, to do bad done. 
His actions to bis words agreed, bis words 
To his large heart gave utterance due, bis heart 
Contain'd of good, wise, fair, the perfect shape;'" — . I 



336 COLERIDGE. [WILLTAM IV. 

and he left the imperishable total, as a bequest to the ages com- 
ing, in the " Paradise Lost." * * No one can rise from the 
perusal of this immortal poem without a deep sense of the gran- 
deur and the purity of Milton's soul, or without feeling how suscep- 
tible of domestic enjoyments he really was, notwithstanding the 
discomforts which actually resulted from an apparently unhappy 
choice in marriage. He was, as every truly great poet has ever been, 
a good man ; but, finding it impossible to realize his own aspirations, 
either in religion or politics, or society, he gave up his heart to 
the living spirit and light within him, and avenged himself on 
the world by enriching it with this record of his own transcendent 
ideal. 

Literary Remains. 



THE MORALITY OF SHAKSPEARE. 

Shakspeare never renders that amiable which religion and rea- 
son alike teach us to detest, or clQ|hes impurity in the garb of 
virtue, like Beaumont and Fletcher, the Kotzebues of the day. 
Shakspeare's fathers are roused by ingratitude, his husbands stung 
by unfaithfulness ; in him, in short, the affections are wounded 
in those points in which all may, nay must, feel. Let the moral- 
ity of Shakspeare be contrasted with that of the writers of his 
own, or the succeeding age, or of those of the present day, who 
boast their superiority in this respect. No one can dispute that 
the result of such a comparison is altogether in favor of Shak- 
speare. Even the letters of women of high rank in his age were 
often coarser than his writings. If he occasionally disgusts a 
keen sense of delicacy, he never injures the mind; he neither 
excites nor flatters passion in order to degrade the subject of it; 
he does not use the faulty thiug for a faulty purpose, nor carries 
on warfare against virtue by causing wickedness to appear as 
no wickedness, through the medium of a morbid sympathy with 
the unfortunate. 

Literary Remains. 



THE COMBINATION IN SHAKSPEARE S CHARACTER. 

There are three powers : wit, which discovers partial likeness 
hidden in general diversity ; subtlety, which discovers the diversity 
concealed in general apparent sameness; and profundity, which 
discovers an essential unity under all the semblances of difference. 

Give to a subtle man fancy, and he is a wit; to a deep man 



1830-1837.] IRVING. 337 

imagination, and be is a philosopher. Add, again, pleasurable 
sensibility in the threefold form of sympathy with the interesting 
in morals, the impressive in form, and the harmonious in sound 
— and you have the poet. 

But combine all — wit, subtlety, and fancy with profundity, 
imagination, and moral and physical susceptibility of the pleasur- 
able — and let the object of action be man universal, and we shall 
have — ! rash prophecy ! say rather we have — a JShakspeare. 

Literary Remains. 



EDWARD IRVING, 1792—1834. 

This celebrated preacher was born at Annan, in Dumfriesshire, Scotland, 
and educated at the University of Edinburgh. After finishing his theolo- 
gical course of studies, he officiated in various churches, until he was re- 
commended to the notice of Dr. Chalmers, who engaged him as his assist- 
ant in St. John's parish, Glasgow. Here he gained so much reputation 
that he was invited to take charge of the Caledonian church in Cross street, 
Hatton Garden, London ; and he entered upon his new field in August, 1822. 
He had not long occupied it before he attracted very large congregations by 
the force and eloquence of his discourses, and the singularity of his ap- 
pearance and gesticulation. Tall, athletic, of a sallow countenance, with a 
profusion of jet black hair reaching to his shoulders, added to a strong 
Scottish accent, accompanied with violent and ungraceful, but impressive 
gestures ; while he was constantly straining after original ideas, embellish- 
ing his discourses with the metaphors of poets and philosophers, and adding 
to the piquancy of his censures by personal allusions and homely truths — 
all these characteristics tended for a time to give him unbounded popularity, 
and the great and the wealthy thronged to hear him. 

But in a few years the tide began to turn: his eccentricity had become 
familiar, and the curiosity of novelty- hunters was satiated. Envy and 
jealousy watched his course, and he was formally accused of heresy by the 
Presbytery of London in 1830. The charges were that his views of the 
"atonement, imputation and satisfaction," were not orthodox, and after a 
protracted trial he was ejected from his church on the 3d of May, 1832. 
Soon after this, consumption laid its hand upon him, and he died on the 6th 
of December, 1834. Dr. Chalmers, on meeting with his senior class at 
Glasgow, on the morning he heard of Mr. Irving's death, paid the follow- 
ing tribute to his memory : " He was one of those whom Burns calls the 
nobles of nature. His talents were so commanding, that you could not 
but admire him ; and he was so open and generous that it was im.possible 
not to love him. He was the evangelical Christian grafted on the old Ro- 



;i38 IRVING. [WILLIAM IV. 

man — with the lofty stern virtues of the one, he possessed the humble graces 
of the other. The constitutional basis and groundwork of his character 
was virtue alone ; and, notwithstanding all his errors and extravagances, 
which both injured his character in the estimation of the world, and threw 
discredit upon much that was good and useful in his writings, I believe 
him to be a man of deep and devoted piety." 

Mr. Irving's publications were — " For the Oracles of God, four Orations : 
for Judgment to Come, an Argument in nine parts;" also " Last Days, and 
Discourses on the Evil Character of the Times:" also Sermons, Lectures, 
and occasional Discourses. But of all that he wrote nothing exceeds, for 
beauty and eloquence, his Preliminary Essay to an edition of " Home on 
the Psalms," from which we extract the following admirably drawn 



CHARACTER OF DAVID. 

Now, as the apostle, in writing to the Hebrews, concerning the 
priesthood of Christ, calls upon them to consider Melchizedek, his 
solitary majesty, and singular condition and remarkable honor ; 
so call we upon the church to consider David, the son of Jesse, 
his unexampled accumulation of gifts, his wonderful variety of 
conditions, his spiritual riches and his spiritual desolation, and the 
multifiirious contingencies of his life; with his faculty, his un- 
rivalled faculty, of expressing the emotions of his soul, under all 
the days of brightness and days of darkness which passed over his 
head. For thereby shall the church understand how this the law- 
giver of her devotion was prepared by God for the work which he 
accomplished, and how it hath happened that one man should have 
brought forth that vast variety of experience, in which every soul 
rejoiceth to find itself reflected. There never was a specimen of 
manhood so rich and ennobled as David, the son of Jesse, whom 
other saints haply may have equalled in single features of his cha- 
racter; but such a combination of manly, heroic qualities, such a 
flush of generous, godlike excellencies, hath never yet been seen 
embodied in a single man. His psalms, to speak as a man, do 
place him in the highest rank of lyrical poets, as they set him 
above all the inspired writers of the old Testament — equalling in 
sublimity the flights of Isaiah himself, and revealing the cloudy 
mystery of Ezekiel; but in love of country, and glorying in its 
heavenly patronage, surpassing them all. And where are there 
such expressions of the varied conditions into which human nature 
is cast by the accidents of providence, such delineations of deep 
afiliction and inconsolable anguish, and anon such joy, such rap- 
ture, such revelry of emotion, in the worship of the living God ! 



1830-1837.] IRVING. 339 

such invocations to all nature, animate and inanimate, such sum- 
monings of the hidden powers of harmony, and of the breathing 
instruments of melody ! Single hymns of this poet would have con- 
ferred immortality upon any mortal, and home down his name as 
one of the most favored of the sons of men. 

But it is not the writings of the man which strike us with such 
wonder, as the actions and events of his wonderful history. He 
was a hero without a peer, bold in battle and generous in victory : 
by distress or by triumph never overcome. Though hunted like 
a wild beast among the mountains, and forsaken like a pelican in 
the wilderness, by the country whose armies he had delivered from 
disgrace, and by the monarch whose daughter he had won — whose 
son he had bound to him with cords of brotherly love, and whose 
own soul he was wont to charm with the sacredness of his min- 
strelsy — he never indulged malice or revenge against his unnatural 
enemies. Twice, at the peril of his life, he brought his blood- 
hunter within his power, and twice he spared him and would not 
be persuaded to injure a hair upon his head — who, when he fell 
in his high plans, was lamented over by David with the bitterness 
of a son, and his death avenged upon the sacrilegious man who 
had lifted his sword against the Lord's anointed. In friendship 
and love, and also in domestic affection, he was not less notable 
than in heroical endowments, and in piety to God he was most 
remarkable of all. He had to flee from his bedchamber in the 
dead of night, his friendly meetings had to be concerted upon the 
perilous edge of captivity and death, his food he had to seek at 
the risk of sacrilege, for a refuge from death to cast himself upon 
the people of Gath, to counterfeit idiocy, and become the laughing- 
stock of his enemies. And who shall tell of his hidings in the 
cave of Adullam, and of his wanderings in the wilderness of Ziph — 
in the weariness of which he had power to stand before his armed 
enemy with all his host, and by the generosity of his deeds, and 
the affectionate language which flowed from his lips, to melt into 
childlike weeping the obdurate spirit of King Saul, which had the 
nerve to evoke the spirits of the dead ! King David was a man 
extreme in all his excellencies — a man of the highest strain, 
whether for counsel, for expression, or for action, in peace and in 
war, in exile and on the throne. That such a warm and ebullient 
spirit should have given way before the tide of its affections, we 
wonder not. We rather wonder that, tried by such extremes, his 
mighty spirit should not often have burst control, and enacted right 
forward the conqueror, the avenger, and the destroyer. But God, 
who anointed him from his childhood, had given him store of the 
best natural and inspired gifts, which preserved him from sinking 



340 IRVING. L^^'^i^^^i^^^* ^^'• 

under the long delay of his promised crown, and kept him from 
contracting any of the craft or cruelty of a hunted, persecuted 
man. And adversity did but bring out the splendor of his cha- 
racter, which might haVe slumbered like the fire in the flint, or 
the precious metal in the dull and earthly ore. 

But to conceive aright of the gracefulness and strength of King 
David's character, we must draw him into comparison with men 
similarly conditioned, and then we shall see how vain the world 
is to cope with him. Conceive a man who had saved his country, 
and clothed himself with gracefulness and renown in the sight of 
all the people by the chivalry of his deeds, won for himself inter- 
marriage with the royal line, and by unction of the Lord's prophet 
been set apart to the throne itself; such a one conceive driven, with 
fury, from house and hold, and through tedious years deserted of 
every stay but heaven, with no soothing sympathies of quiet life, 
harassed forever between famine and the edge of the sword, and 
kept in savage holds and deserts; and tell us, in the annals of 
men, of one so disappointed, so bereaved and straitened, maintain- 
ing not fortitude alone, but sweet composure and a heavenly frame 
of soul, inditing praise to no avenging deity, and couching songs 
in no revengeful mood, according with his outcast and unsocial 
life ; but inditing praises to the God of mercy, and songs which 
soar into the third heavens of the soul — not indeed without the 
burst of sorrow and the complaint of solitariness, and prophetic 
warnings to his bloodthirsty foes, but ever closing in sweet pre- 
ludes of good to come, and desire of present contentment. Find 
us such a one in the annals of men, and we yield the argument 
of this controversy. Men there have been driven before the wrath 
of kings to wander outlaws and exiles, whose musings and actings 
have been recorded to us in the minstrelsy of our native land. 
Draw these songs of the exile into comparison with the psalms of 
David, and know the spirit of the man after God's own heart; the 
stern defiance of the one, with the tranquil acquiescence of the 
other; the deep despair of the one, with the rooted trust of the 
other; the vindictive imprecations of the one, with the tender re- 
gret and forgiveness of the other. Show us an outlaw who never 
spoiled the country which had forsaken him, nor turned his hand 
in self-defence or revenge upon his persecutors — who used the vigor 
of his arm only against the enemies of his country — yea, lifted up 
his arm in behalf of that mother, which had cast her son, crowned 
with salvation, away from her bosom, and held him at a distance 
from her love, and raised the rest of her family to hunt him to 
the death; in the defence of that thankless unnatural mother 
country, find us such a repudiated son lifting up his arm, and 



1830-1837.] IRVING. 341 

spending its vigor in smiting and utterly discomfiting her enemies, 
whose spoils he kept not to enrich himself and his ruthless fol- 
lowerSj but dispensed to comfort her and her happier children. 
Find us, among the Themistocles and Coriolani, and Cromwells 
and Napoleons of the earth, such a man, and we will yield the 
argument of this controversy which we maintain for the peerless 
son of Jesse. 

But we fear that not such another man is to be found in the 
recorded annals of men. Though he rose from the peasantry to 
fill the throne, and enlarge the borders of his native land, he gave 
himself neither to ambition nor to glory; though more basely 
treated than the sons of men, he gave not place to despondency or 
revenge : though of the highest genius in poetry, he gave it not 
license to sing his own deeds, nor to depict loose and licentious 
life, nor to ennoble any worldly sentiment or attachment of the 
human heart, however virtuous or honorable, but constrained it to 
sing the praises of God, and the victories of the right hand of the 
Lord of hosts, and his admirable works which are of old from 
everlasting. And he hath dressed out religion in such a rich and 
beautiful garment of divine poesy as beseemeth her majesty, in 
which, being arrayed, she can stand up, before the eyes even of her 
enemies, in more royal state than any personification of love, or 
glory, or pleasure, to which highly gifted mortals have devoted 
their genius. 

The force of his character was va'st, and the scope of his life was 
immense. His harp was full stringed, and every angel of joy and 
of sorrow swept over the chords as h.e past; but the melody always 
breathed of heaven. And such oceans of afiection lay within his 
breast as could not always slumber in their calmness. For the 
hearts of a hundred men strove and struggled together within the 
narrow continent of his single heart. And will the scornful men 
have no sympathy for one so conditioned, but scorn him because 
he ruled not with constant quietness the unruly host of divers 
natures which dwelt within his single soul ? Of self-command surely 
he will not be held deficient who endured Saul's javelin to be so 
often launched at him, while the people without were willing to 
hail him king; who endured all bodily hardships and taunts of his 
enemies when revenge was in his hand, and ruled his desperate 
band like a company of saints, and restrained them from their 
country's injury. But that he should not be able to enact all cha- 
racters without a fault, the simple shepherd, the conquering hero, 
and the romantic lover; the perfect friend, the innocent outlaw, 
and the royal monarch ; the poet, the prophet, and the regenerator 
of the church; and withal the man, the man of vast soul, who 
30 



342 LAMB. [WILLIAM IV. 

played not, these parts by turns, but was the original of them all, 
and wholly present in them all — oh ! that he should have fulfilled 
this high priesthood of humanity, this universal ministry of man- 
hood without an error, were more than human ! With the defence 
of his backslidings, which he hath himself more keenly scrutinized, 
more clearly discerned against, and more bitterly lamented than 
any of his censors, we do not charge ourselves; but if, when of 
these acts he became convinced, he be found less true to God and 
to righteousness; indisposed to repentance and sorrow and anguish; 
exculpatory of himself; stout-hearted in his courses; a formalist 
in his penitence, or in any way less worthy of a spiritual man in 
those than in the rest of his infinite moods, then, verily, strike him 
from the canon, and let his psalms become moiikish legends, or 
what you please. But if these penitential psalms discover the 
soul's deepest hell of agony, and lay bare the iron ribs of misery, 
whereon the very heart dissolveth; and if they, expressing the 
same in words, which melt the soul that conceiveth, and bow the 
head that uttereth them — then, we say, let us keep these records of 
the psalmist's grief and despondency as the most precious of his 
utterances, and sure to be needed in the case of every man whc 
essayeth to live a spiritual life. 



CHARLES LAMB, 1775—1834. 

Charles Lamb, the distinguished essayist and critic, was born in Lon- 
don on the 11th of February, 1775. At the age of seven, he entered the 
school of Christ Hospital, where he remained till he was fourteen, when 
he was employed by his brother for a short time in the South Sea House, 
of which he, in afier years, gave a most graphic and humorous account, 
in one of his inimitable essays. In 1793, he obtained an appointment in 
the accountants' department in the India House, where he remained till 
1825, when he was allowed to retire on a handsome pension. The events 
of his life, of a domestic nature, are of little moment. He resided in Lon- 
don, at first with his parents, and enjoyed the society occasionally of such 
men as Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, and his biographer. Sergeant 
Talfourd. " On the death of his parents," says Talfourd, "he felt himself 
called upon by duty to repay to his sister the solicitude with which she had 
watched over his infancy, and well, indeed, he performed it. To her, from 
the age of twenty-one, he devoted his existence, seeking thenceforth no 
connection which could interfere with her supremacy in his affections, or 
impair his ability to sustain or to comfort her." His first appearance as an 



1830-1837.] LAMB. 343 

author was in a small volume of poetry, published by his friend Coleridge 
in 1797, to which he contributed various pieces. A few years afterwards 
appeared " Old Blind Margaret and Rosamond Gray," a tale of great sim- 
plicity, sweetness, and pathos. In 1802, he published "John Woodvil, a 
Tragedy ;" but it had no success. In 1808, appeared his " Specimens of 
English Dramatic Poets, who lived about the time of Shakspeare, with 
Notes," chiefly critical. This work showed a thorough appreciation of the 
old dramatists, and a "fine critical taste in analyzing their genius." 

But the most celebrated of all Lamb's works were his essays signed 
"Elia," which were published in various periodicals, chiefly the " London 
Magazine," between the years 1820 and 1833. These are, in their kind, 
unique and incomparable, displaying his extensive and curious reading, his 
nice observation, his delicate poetical conceptions, and a genial humor which, 
in some respects, quite rivals that of Addison. "All these Essays," says 
his biographer, " are carefully elaborated ; yet never were works written in 
a higher defiance to the conventional pomp of style. A sly hit, a happy 
pun, a humorous combination, lets the light into the intricacies of the sub- 
ject, and supplies the place of ponderous sentences. Seeking his materials 
for the most part in the common paths of life — often in the humblest — he 
gives an importance to everything, and sheds a grace over all." In 1830, 
appeared his small volume of poems called "Album Verses." In con- 
junction with his sister, he also compiled three very popular books for chil- 
dren, namely, "Mrs. Leicester's School, or the History of several Young 
Ladies, related by themselves ;" " Tales from Shakspeare ;" and " The Ad- 
ventures of Ulysses." His volume bearing the title of "The Last Essays 
of Elia" appeared in 1833, but he did not long survive its publication, having 
died on the 27th of December, 1834. 

As a poet. Lamb does not take a very high rank ; but in his own walks 
in prose few have surpassed him. In depth of thought and splendor of 
genius he was surpassed by several of his contemporaries, but as an essayist 
he is entitled to a place beside Rabelais, Montaigne, Sir Thomas Browne, 
Steele, and Addison. He unites many of the characteristics of these several 
writers. He has refined wit, exquisite humor, a genuine and cordial vein 
of pleasantry, and heart-touching pathos. His fancy as an essayist is dis- 
tinguished by great delicacy and tenderness ; and even his conceits are 
imbued with human feeling and passion. A confirmed habit of studying 
the earlier English writers had made their style, as it were, natural to him, 
and while he had their manner, he had likewise much of their spirit. As a 
critic, he displays exquisite powers of discrimination in his brief comments 
on the specimens of the early English dramatic writers. He discerns, at 
once, the true meaning of the writer, and seizes with unerring precision 
upon the proper point of view from which the piece ought to be seen.^ 

' Read "Biography," by Talfourd; also articles in the "Edinburgh Re- 
view," vol. Ixvi, p. 1, "Quarterly," vol. liv. p. 58, and " Encyclopsedia Bri' 
tannica." 



344 LAMB. [WILLIAM IV 



THE HOUSEKEEPER. 

The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, 
Carries his house with him where'er he goes; 
Peeps out — and if there comes a shower of rain, 
Retreats to his small domicile amain. 
Touch but a tip of him, a horn, 'tis well — 
He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 
He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay 
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites 
And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o'nights. 
He spares the upholster trouble to procure 
Chattels ; himself is his own furniture, 
And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam, 
Knock when you will, he's sure to be at home. 



ON THE FAMILY NAME. 

What reason first imposed thee, gentle name — 
Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, 
Without reproach? we trace our stream no Jiigher; 

And I, a childless man, may end the same. 

Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains. 
In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, 
Received thee first amid the merry mocks 

And arch allusions of his fellow swains. 

Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd, 
With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd 
Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord 

Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. 

Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, 

No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. 



THE SABBATH BELLS. 

The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, 

Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice 

Of one who from the far off" hills proclaims 

Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when 

Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear 

Of the contemplant, solitary man, 

Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure 

Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, 

And oft again, hard matter, which eludes 

And baffles his pursuit — thought-sick, and tired 



1830-1837.] LAMB. 345 

Of controversy, where no end appears. 
No clue to his research, the lonely man 
Half wishes for society again. 
Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute 
Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in 
The cheering music; his relenting soul 
Yearns after all the joys of social life, 
And softens with the love of human kind. 



SHAKSPEARE CANNOT BE ACTED. 

The characters of Shakspeare are so much the objects of medi- 
tation rather than of interest or curiosity, as to their actions, that 
while we are reading any of his great criminal characters — Mac- 
beth, Richard, even lago — we think not so much of the crimes 
which they commit, as of the ambition, the aspiring spirit, the 
intellectual activity, which prompts them to overleap those moral 
fences. In Shakspeare, so little do the actions comparatively affect 
us, that while the impulses, the inner mind, in all its perverted 
greatness, solely seems real and is exclusively attended to, the 
crime is comparatively nothing. But when we see these things 
represented, the acts which they do are comparatively everything, 
their impulses nothing. The state of sublime emotion into which 
w^are elevated by those images of fright and horror which Mac- 
beth is made to utter — that solemn prelude with which he enter- 
tains the time till the bell shall strike which is to call him to 
murder Duncan — when we no longer read it in a book — when we 
have given up that vantage-ground of abstraction which reading 
possesses over seeing, and come to see a man, in his bodily shape 
before our eyes, actually preparing to commit a murder — the pain- 
ful anxiety about the act, the natural longing to prevent it while 
it yet seems unperpetrated, the too close pressing semblance of 
reality, gives a pain and an uneasiness which totally destroy all 
the delight which the words in the book convey, where the deed- 
doing never presses upon us with the painful sense of presence; 
it rather seems to belong to history — to something past and inevi- 
table — if it has anything to do with time at all. The sublime 
images, the poetry alone, is that which is present to our minds in 
the reading. 

So, to see Lear acted — to see an old man tottering about the 
stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters, 
in a rainy night — has nothing in it but what is painful and dis- 
gusting. We want to take him into shelter, and relieve him — 
that is all the feeling which the actine: of Lear ever produced in 

30* 



346 LAMB. [WILLIAM IV. 

me : but the Lear of Sbakspeare cannot be acted. The contempt- 
ible machinery by which they mimic the storm which he goes out 
in is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real ele- 
ments than any actor can be to represent Lear : they might more 
easily propose to personate the Satan of Milton upon a stage, or 
one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The greatness of Lear 
is not in corporal dimensions, but in intellectual ; the explosions 
of his passion are terrible as a volcano — they are storms turning 
up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his mind, with all its 
vast riches. It is his mind which is laid bare. This case of flesh 
and blood seems too insignificant to be thought on — even as he 
himself neglects it. On the stage we see nothing but corporal 
infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage ; while we read it, 
we see not Lear, but we are Lear — we are in his mind — we are 
sustained by a grandeur which bafiles the malice of daughters and 
storms; in the aberrations of his reason we discover a mighty ir- 
regular power of reasoning, immethodized from the ordinary pur- 
poses of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it 
listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. 
What have looks or tones to do with that sublime identification 
of his age with that of the heavens themselves, when,, in his re- 
proaches to them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he 
reminds them that "they themselves are old?'^ What gesture 
shall we appropriate to this? what has the voice or the eye to do 
with such things? * 



CONFESSIONS OF AN INEBRIATE.* 

Dehortations from the use of strong liquors have been the fa- 
vorite topic of sober declaimers in all ages, and have been received 

* What a sad; sad reflection it is tJiat poor Lamb has iiere drawn his own 
picture ! " In all honest praise of Lamb," saj^s an admirable critic, " in every- 
thing that can be fairly said to vindicate his character, and to extenuate his 
fault or faults — we rejoice from the bottom of our hearts. He was born to be 
loved. But we cannot agree to build an altar for the enslirining of any theory 
of drunkenness — even the drunkenness of Lamb. Everybody is painfully- 
aware that drunkenness is compatible wilh the highest order of genius and 
virtue. So much the worse ; for we know also that it has a perilous tend- 
ency to ruin both. What ought to be the moral ? Surely this, that the nobler 
the victim the more impressive the example. The characteristic of intem- 
perance is that it is the gratification of our animal, at the expense of our in- 
tellectual and moral nature. Accordingly, it is the characteristic vice of 
savage as coinpared with civilized nations; and in civilized nations, of the 
class which is left most savage. The first stage in intemperance is to place 
one's self in the rank of a barbarian ; the last in the condition of a brute." 

EfJinhurgh Revieio, vol. Ixvi. p. .30. 



1830-1837.] LAMB. 347 

with abundance of applause by water-drinking critics. But with 
the patient himself, the man that is to be cured, unfortunately, their 
sound has seldom prevailed. Yet the evil is acknowledged, the 
remedy simple. Abstain. No force can oblige a man to raise 
the glass to his head against his will. ^Tis as easy as not to steal, 
not to tell lies. 

Twelve years ago I had completed my six-and-twentieth year. 
I had lived from the period of leaving school to that time pretty 
much in solitude. My companions were chiefly books, or at most 
one or two living ones of my own book-loving and sober stamp. 
I rose early, went to bed betimes, and the faculties which God had 
given me, I have reason to think, did not rust in me unused. 

About that time I fell in with some companions of a different 
order. They were men of boisterous spirits, sitters up a-nights, 
disputants, drunken; yet seemed to have something noble about 
them. We dealt about the wit, or what passes for it, after mid- 
night, jovially. Of the quality called fancy I certainly possessed a 
larger share than my companions. Encouraged by their applause, 
I set up for a professed joker! I, who of all men am least 
fitted for such an occupation, having, in addition to the greatest 
difficulty which I experience at all times of finding words to express 
my meaning, a natural nervous impediment in my speech ? 

They were no drinkers ; but, one from professional habits, and 
another from a custom derived from his father, smoked tobacco. 
The devil could not have devised a more subtle trap to re-take a 
backsliding penitent. The transition from gulping down draughts 
of liquid fire to puffing out innocuous blasts of dry smoke was so 
like cheating him. But he is too hard for us when we hope to 
commute. He beats us at barter; and when we think to set off 
a new failing against an old infirmity, 'tis odds but he puts the 
trick upon us of two for one. That (comparatively) white devil 
of tobacco brought with him in the end seven worse than himself. 

It were impertinent to carry the reader through all the processes 
by which, from smoking at first with malt liquor, I took my de- 
grees through thin wines, through stronger wine and water, through 
small punch, to those juggling compositions which, under the name 
of mixed liquors, slur a great deal of brandy or other poison under 
less and less water continually, until they come next to none, and 
so to none at all. But it is hateful to disclose the secrets of my 
Tartarus. 

Twelve years ago, I was possessed of a healthy frame of mind 
and body. I was never strong, but I think my constitution (for 
a weak one) was as happily exempt from the tendency to any 
malady as it was possible to be. I scarce knew what it was to 



348 LAMB. [WILLIAM IV. 

ail anything. Now, except when I am losing myself in a sea of 
drink, I am never free from those uneasy sensations in head and 
stomach which are so much worse to bear than any definite pains 
or aches. 

At that time I was seldom in bed after six in the morning, 
summer and winter. I awoke refreshed, and seldom without some 
merry thoughts in my head, or some piece of a song to welcome 
the new-born day. Now, the first feeling which besets me, after 
stretching out the hours of recumbence to their last possible extent, 
is a forecast of the wearisome day that lies before me, with a secret 
wish that I could have lain on still, or never awaked. 

Life itself, my waking life, has much of the confusion, the 
trouble, and obscure perplexity of an ill dream. In the daytime 
I stumble upon dark mountains. 

Business, which, though never very particularly adapted to my 
nature, yet as something of necessity to be gone through, and 
therefore best undertaken with cheerfulness, I used to enter upon 
with some degree of alacrity, now wearies, affrights, perplexes me. 
I fancy all sorts of discouragements, and am ready to give up an 
occupation which gives me bread, from a harassing conceit of 
incapacity. The slightest commission given me by a friend, or 
any small duty which I have to perform for myself, as giving orders 
to a tradesman, &c., haunts me as a labor impossible to be got 
through. So much the springs of action are broken. 

The same cowardice attends me in all my intercourse with man- 
kind. I dare not promise that a friend's honor, or his cause, would 
be safe in my keeping, if I were put to the expense of any manly 
resolution in defending it. So much the springs of moral action 
are deadened within me. 

My favorite occupations in times past now cease to entertain. I 
can do nothing readily. Application, for ever so short a time, kills 
me. This poor abstract of my condition was penned at long inter- 
vals, with scarcely any attempt at connection of thought, which is 
now difiicult to me. 

The noble passages which formerly delighted me in history or 
poetic fiction now only draw a few weak tears, allied to dotage. 
My broken and dispirited nature seems to sink before anything 
great and admirable. 

I perpetually catch myself in tears, for any cause, or none. It 
is inexpressible how much this infirmity adds to a sense of shame, 
and a general feeling of deterioration. 

These are some of the instances, concerning which I can say 
with truth that it was not always so with me. 



1830-1837.] LAMB. 349 

Shall I lift up the veil of my weakness any further? or is this 
disclosure sufficient? 

I am a poor nameless egotist, who have no vanity to consult by 
these Confessions. I know not whether I shall be laughed at, or 
heard seriously. Such as they are, I commend them to the read- 
er's attention, if he find his own case any way touched. I have 
told him what I am come to. Let him stop in time. 



Still-born Silence ! thou that art 

Flood-gate of the deeper-heart! 

Offspring of a heavenly kind ! 

Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind ! . 

Secrecy's confidant, and he 

Who makes religion mystery! 

Admiration's speaking'st tongue ! 

Leave, thy desert shades among. 

Reverend hermits' hallow'd cells, 

Where retired devotion dvi^ells ! 

With thy enthusiasms come, 

Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb!^ 

Eeader, wouldst thou know what true peace and quiet mean ; 
wouldst thou find a refuge from the noises and clamors of the 
multitude; wouldst thou enjoy at once solitude and society; 
wouldst thou possess the depth of thy own spirit in stillness, 
without being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy species; 
wouldst thou be alone, and yet accompanied; solitary, yet not 
desolate; singular, yet not without some to keep thee in counte- 
nance; a unit in aggregate; a simple in composite: come with me 
into a Quakers' Meeting. 

Dost thou love silence deep as that "before the winds were 
made?'' go not out into the wilderness; descend not into the pro- 
fundities of the earth ; shut not up thy casements ; nor pour wax 
into the little cells of thy ears, with little-faith' d, self-mistrusting 
Ulysses. Retire with me into** a Quakers' Meeting. 

For a man to refrain even from good words, and to hold his 
peace, it is commendable; but for a multitude, it is great mastery. 

AVhat is the stillness of the desert compared with this place ? 
what the uncommunicating muteness of fishes? here the goddess 
reigns and revels. " Boreas, and Cesias, and Argestes loud," do 
not with their inter-confounding uproars more augment the brawl 

* From "Poems of all Sorts," bv Richard Flecknoe, 1653. 



350 LAMB. [WILLIAM IV. 

— nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed sounds — 
than their opposite (Silence her sacred self) is multiplied and 
rendered more intense by numbers and by sympathy. She too 
hath her deeps, that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a posi- 
tive more and less; and closed eyes would seem to obscure the 
great obscurity of midnight. 

There are wounds which an imperfect solitude cannot heal. By 
imperfect I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The 
perfect is that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, but no- 
where so absolutely as in a Quakers' Meeting. Those first hermits 
did certainly understand this principle, when they retired into 
Egyptian solitudes, not singly but in shoals, to enjoy one another's 
want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to his brethren 
by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness. In secular occa- 
sions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book through a long 
winter evening, with a friend sitting by — say, a wife — he, or she, 
too (if that be probable), reading another, without interruption, or 
oral communication ? can there be no sympathy without the gabble 
of words ? away with this inhuman, shy, single, shade and cavern- 
haunting solitariness ! Grive me, Master Zimmermann, a sympa- 
thetic solitude ! 

To pace alone in the cloisters, or side aisles of some cathedral, 
time-stricken; 

Or under hanging mountains, 
Or by tiie fall of fountains ; 

is but a vulgar luxury, compared with that which those enjoy who 
come together for the purposes of more complete, abstracted soli- 
tude. This is the loneliness "to be felt." The Abbey Church 
of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as the 
naked walls and benches of a Quakers' Meeting. Here are no 
tombs, no inscriptions, 

Sands, ignoble things, 



Dropt from the ruined sides of kings — 

but here is something which throws Antiquity herself into the 
fore-ground — Silence — eldest of things — language of old Night — 
primitive Discourser — to which the insolent decays of mouldering 
grandeur have but arrived by a violent, and, as we may say, unna- 
tural progression. 

How reverend is the view of these hushed heads, 
Looking tranquillity ! 

Nothing-plotting, naught-caballing, unraischievous synod ! con- 
vocation without intrigue! parliament without debate! what a 



1830-1837.] LAMB. 351 

lesson dost thou read to council and to consistory ! if my pen treat 
of you lightly — as haply it will wander — yet my spirit hath gravely 
felt the wisdom of your custom, when, sitting among you in deep- 
est peace, which some out-welling tears would rather confirm than 
disturb, I have reverted to the times of your beginnings, and the 
sowings of the seed by Fox and Dewesbury. I have witnessed 
that which brought before my eyes your heroic tranquillity, inflex- 
ible to the rude jests and serious violences of the insolent soldiery, 
republican or royalist, sent to molest you — for ye sate betwixt the 
fires of two persecutions, the outcast and offscouring of church and 
presbytery. I have seen the reeling sea-rufiian, who had wandered 
into your receptacle with the avowed intention of disturbing your 
quiet, from the very spirit of the place receive in a moment a new 
heart, and presently sit among ye as a lamb amidst lambs. And 
I remember Penn before his accusers, and Fox in the bail-dock, 
where he was lifted up in spirit, as he tells us, and '^the judge 
and the jury became as dead men under his feet.^^ 

Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend 
to you, above all church-narratives, to read Sewel's " History of the 
Quakers.^' It is in folio, and is the abstract of the Journals of 
Fox and the primitive Friends. It is far more edifying and affect- 
ing than anything you will read of Wesley and his colleagues. 
Here is nothing to stagger you, nothing to make you mistrust, no 
suspicion of alloy, no drop or dreg of the worldly or ambitious 
spirit. You will here read the true story of that much-injured, 
ridiculed man (who perhaps hath been a byword in your mouth), 
James Naylor : what dreadful sufierings, with what patience, he 
endured, even to the boring through of his tongue with red-hot 
irons, without a murmur; and with what strength of mind, when 
the delusion he had fallen into, which they stigmatized for blas- 
phemy, had given way to clearer thoughts, he could renounce his 
error, in a strain of the beautifuUest humility, yet keep his first 
grounds, and be a Quaker still ! so different from the practice of 
your common converts from enthusiasm, who, when they aposta- 
tize, apostatize all, and think they can never get far enough from 
the society of their former errors, even to the renunciation of some 
saving truths, with which they had been mingled, not implicated. 

Get the Writings of John Woolman by heart; and love the 
early Quakers. 

How far the followers of these good men in our days have kept 
to the primitive spirit, or in what proportion they have substituted , 
formality for it, the Judge of Spirits can alone determine. I have 
seen faces in their assemblies, upon which the dove sate visibly 
brooding. Others again I have watched^ when my thoughts should 



352 LAMB. [WILLIAM IV. 

have been better engaged, in which I could possibly detect nothing 
but a blank inanity. But quiet was in all, and the disposition 
to unanimity, and the absence of the fierce controversial workings. 
If the spiritual pretensions of the Quakers have abated, at least 
they make few pretences. Hypocrites they certainly are not, 
in their preaching. It is seldom indeed that you shall see 
one get up amongst them to hold forth. Only now and then a 
trembling, female, generally ancient^ voice is heard — you cannot 
guess from what part of the meeting it proceeds — with a low, buzz- 
ing, musical sound, laying out a few words which "she thought 
might suit the condition of some present," with a quaking diffi- 
dence, which leaves no possibility of supposing that anything of 
female vanity was mixed up, where the tones were so full of ten- 
derness and a restraining modesty. The men, for what I have 
observed, speak seldomer. 

More frequently the Meeting is broken up without a word hav- 
ing been spoken. But the mind has been fed. You go away 
with a sermon not made with hands. You have been in the 
milder caverns of Trophonius; or as in some den, where that 
fiercest and savagest of all wild creatures, the Tongue, that un- 
ruly member, has strangely lain tied up and captive. You have 
bathed with stillness. when the spirit is sore fretted, even tired 
to sickness of the j anglings and nonsense-noises of the world, 
what a balm and a solace it is to go and seat yourself, for a quiet 
half hour, upon some undisputed corner of a bench, among the 
gentle Quakers! 

Their garb and stillness conjoined present a uniformity, tranquil 
and herd-like — as in the pasture — "forty feeding like one." 

The very garments of a Quaker seem incapable of receiving a 
soil; and cleanliness in them to be something more than the absence 
of its contrary. Every Quakeress is a lily; and when they come 
up in bands to their Whitsun-conferences, whitening the easterly 
streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United Kingdom, 
they show like troops of the Shining Ones. 



THE TWO RACES OP MEN. 

The human species, according to the best theory I can form of _ 
it, is composed of two distinct races, the men wlio borrow, and the 
men who lend. To these two original diversities may be reduced 
all those impertinent classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, 
white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, 
"Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites/^ flock hither, and do na- 



1830-1837.] LAMB. 353 

turally fall in with one or other of these primary distinctions. 
The infinite superiority of the former, which I choose to designate 
as the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, and a certain 
instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born degraded. ^'He 
shall serve his brethren." There is something in the air of one 
of this cast, lean and suspicious ; contrasting with the open, trust- 
ing, generous manners of the other. 

Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages — 
Alcibiades — Falstafi" — Sir Richard Steele — our late incomparable 
Brinsley — what a family likeness in all four ! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower ! what 
rosy gills I what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he manl- 
iest — taking no more thought than lilies ! What contempt for 
money — accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better than 
dross ! What a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions 
of meum and tmmi ! or, rather, what a noble simplification of lan- 
guage (beyond Tooke), resolving these supposed opposites into one 
clear, intelligible pronoun adjective ! What near approaches doth 
he make to the primitive community — to the extent of one half 
of the principle at least. 

He is the true taxer who '^calleth all the world «p to be taxed;" 
and the distance is as vast between him and one of us, as subsisted 
between the Augustan Majesty and the poorest obolary Jew that 
paid it tribute-pittance at Jerusalem ! His exactions, too, have 
such a cheerful, voluntary air I So far removed from your sour 
parochial or state-gatherers — those ink-horn varlets who carry 
their want of welcome in their faces ! He cometh to you with a 
smile, and troubleth you with no receipt; confining himself to no 
set season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his Feast of Holy 
Michael. He applieth the lene tormentum of a pleasant look to 
your purse — which to that gentle warmth expands her silken 
leaves as naturally as the cloak of the traveller, for which sun 
and wind contended! He is the true Propontis which never 
ebbeth ! the sea which taketh handsomely at each man^s hand. 
In vain the victim, whom he delighteth to honor, struggles with 
destiny; he is in the net. Lend therefore cheerfully, man, 
ordained to lend — that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly 
penny, the reversion promised. Combine not preposterously in 
thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and of Dives ! but, 
when thou seest the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, 
as it were half-way. Come, a handsome sacrifice ! See how light 
he makes of it ! Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy. 

Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by the 
death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq , who parted this life, 
31 



354 LAMB. [WILLIAM IV. 

on Wednesday evening; dying, as he had lived, without much 
trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors 
of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. 
In his actions and sentiments he belied not the stock to which he 
pretended. Early in life he found himself invested with ample 
revenues; which, with that noble disinterestedness which I have 
noticed as inherent in men of the great race, he took almost im- 
mediate measures entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing : for 
there is something revolting in the idea of a king holding a private 
purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus furnished 
by the very act of disfurnishment; getting rid of the cumbersome 
luggage of riches, more apt (as one sings) 

To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, 

Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, 

he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, '' bor- 
rowing and to borrow !'^ 

In his periegesis, or triumphant progress throughout this island, 
it has been calculated that he laid a tythe part of the inhabitants 
under contribution. I reject this estimate as greatly exaggerated : 
but having ha#the honor of accompanying my friend divers times, 
in his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was greatly 
struck at first with the prodigious number of faces we met, who 
claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with us. He was one 
day so obliging as to explain the phenomenon. It seems, these 
were his tributaries; feeders of his exchequer; gentlemen, his 
good friends (as he was pleased to express himself), to whom he 
had occasionally been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did 
no way disconcert him. He rather took a pride in numbering 
them; and, with Comus, seemed pleased to be "stocked with so 
fair a herd.'^ 

With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep 
his treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, 
which he had often in his mouth, that ''money kept longer than 
three days stinks.'^ So he made use of it while it was fresh. A 
good part he drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot); some 
he gave away, the rest he threw away, literally tossing and hurl- 
ing it violently from him — as boys do burrs, or as if it had been 
infectious — into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes, inscrutable cavi- 
ties of the earth; or he would bury it (where he would never 
seek it again) by a river's side under some bank, which (he would 
facetiously observe) paid no interest — but out away from him it 
must go peremptorily, as Hagar's offspring into the wilderness, 
while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams were pe- 



.1830-1837.] LAMB. • 355 

rennial wbicli fed bis fisc. When new supplies became necessary, 
the first person that had the felicity to fall in with him, friend or 
stranger, was sure to contribute to the deficiency. For Bigod had 
an undeniable way with him. He had a cheerful, open exterior, 
a quick, jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with gray {cana 
fides). He anticipated no excuse, and found none. And, waiving 
for a while my theory as to the great raccy I would put it to the 
most untheoriziug reader, who may at times have disposable coin 
in his pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kindliness 
of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describing, than to say 
no to a poor petitionary rogue (your bastard borrower), who, by 
his mumping visnomy, tells you that he expects nothing better; 
and, therefore, whose preconceived notions and expectations you 
do in reality so much less shock in the refusal. 

When I think of this man; his fiery glow of heart; his swell 
of feeling; how magnificent, how ideal he was; how great at the 
midnight hour; and when I compare with him the companions 
with whom I have associated since, I grudge the saving of a few 
idle ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of lendersy 
and lUde men. 

The following is a portion of a letter to Coleridge, in which he most 
beautifully pours forth his feelings of 



FILIAL AFFECTION. 

I am wedded, Coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my 
poor old father. ! my friend, I think sometimes, could I recall 
the days that are past, which among them should I choose? Not 
those ''merrier days,'' not the ''pleasant days of hope," not 
" those wanderings with a fair-haired maid," which I have so often 
and so feelingly regretted, but the days, Coleridge, of a mother's 
fondness for her schoolboy. What would I give to call her back 
to earth for one day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those 
little asperities of temper which, from time to time, have given 
her gentle spirit pain ! And the day, my friend, I trust, will come; 
there will be " time enough" for kind offices of love, if "Heaven's 
eternal year" be ours. Hereafter, her meek spirit shall not re- 
proach me. 0, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings ! and let no 
man think himself released from the kind "charities" of relation- 
ship; these* shall give him peace at the last: these are the best 
foundation for every species of benevolence. I rejoice to hear, by 
certain channels, that you^ my friend, are reconciled with all your 



356 * HEMANS. [WILLIAM IV.. 

relations. 'Tis the most kindly and natural species of love^ and 
we have all the associated train of early feelings to secure its 
strength and perpetuity. 



FELICIA HEMANS, 1793-1835. 

Felicia Dof.othea Browne was the daughter of a Liverpool merchant, 
and was born on the 25th of September, 1793. From her earliest years 
she was remarkable for her extreme beauty and precocious talent. At the 
age of seven, her father was unsuccessful in business and removed to 
Wales. Here the young poetess passed a happy childhood, and here she 
imbibed that intense love of nature which ever afterwards " haunted her 
like a passion." She early began to court the Muse, and in 1 808 a volume 
of her poems was published ; but it was not received with much favor. 
This, however, did not discourage her, and she continued to write. In 
1812, another volume, entitled " The Domestic Affections, and other 
Poems," was given to the world — the last that was to appear under her 
maiden name, for in the summer of that year she exchanged it for the one 
by which she is generally known, her youthful fancy having been capti- 
vated by the martial appearance and military dress of a Captain Hemans, of 
the army. The match proved a very unhappy one, and after they had lived 
together six years, in 1818 Captain Hemans, whose health had been im- 
paired by a military life, determined to try the effects of a southern climate, 
and went to Italy. Mrs. Hemans, with her five boys, repaired to her ma- 
ternal roof, and the two never met again. She continued her studies in her 
rural retreat, acquiring several languages, and in 1819 obtained a prize of 
£50 for the best poem upon Sir William Wallace. In 1820, she published 
the " Skeptic," which was favorably noticed in the " Edinburgh Monthly 
Magazine." In June, 1821, she obtained the prize awarded by the Royal 
Society of Literature for the best poem on the subject of "Dartmoor."^ 
" The Voice of Spring," perhaps the best known and the best loved of all 
her lyrics, was written early in the year 1823. In the latter part of the 
same year, she published " The Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy, which 
was considered a failure; and in 1826 appeared her best poem, "The 
Forest Sanctuary," which was brought out in conjunction with the " Lays 
of Many Lands." Every successive year brought fresh proofs of her 
widely-extending fame. In 1828, having suffered the loss of her mother — 

' In a letter to a friend on the occasion, she thus pleasantly writes : " What 
with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish 
you could have seen the children when the prize was announced lo ihem yes- 
terday. Arthur sprang from his ' Latin Exercise,' and shouted, ' Now I am 
sure mamma is a better poet than Lord Byron.' " 



1830-1837.] HE3IANS. 357 

an affliction which went down into the very depths of her soul — she removed 
to Wavertree, near Liverpool, and soon gave to the world " Lays of Lei- 
sure Hours," " National Lyrics," and other poems. In 1829, she made a 
visit to Scotland, and was most cordially received by Sir Walter Scott, 
Jeffrey, and other distinguished literary characters of the Scottish metro- 
polis.* 

Early in 1830, she published her volume of "Songs of the Affections," 
and in the month of June she accomplished a project which she had long had 
at heart, of making a visit to the Lakes of Westmoreland,^ and to the poet 
Wordsworth. On returning thence, she went to reside in Dublin, where 
her brother, Major Browne, was settled. She entered very little into the 
general society of Dublin, but devoted most of her time to the education of 
her children. Her health, however, was quite feeble, so that, in her own 
language, "the exertion of writing became quite irksome." Early in 
1834 appeared her " Hymns for Childhood," which was soon followed by 
" Scenes and Hymns of Life," and both were noticed very favorably in the 
periodicals of the day.^ But her course of life was nearly run ; a cold, 
taken by being out too late in the evening, terminated in a fever, and she 
breathed her last, whhout a pain or struggle, on the 16th of May, 1835. 
Her remains were deposited in a vault beneath St, Anne's Church, Dublin, 
and over her grave some lines, from one of her own dirges, were inscribed : 

» In the " Edinburgh Review" for October, 1829, appeared an article on the 
poetry of Mrs. Hemans, from the masterly pen of Jefirey, vv^ho, with great 
delicacy and discrimination, touches upon the peculiar characteristics of her 
style. "Almost all her poems," Vi^rites this high authority, "■ are rich with 
fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these 
are never idle ornaments ; all her pomps have a meaning, and her flowers and 
her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to 
speak the language of truth and passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in 
some little pieces, which seem at first sight to be purely descriptive — but are 
soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression." 
^ Of the beauty of this scenery, she thus writes : " Yesterday I rode round 
Grasmere and Rydal Lake. It was a glorious evening, and the imaged hea- 
vens in the waters more completely filled my mind, even to overflowing, than 
I think any object in nature ever did betbre. I could have stood in silence 
before the magnificent vision an hour, as it flushed and faded, and darkened 
at last into the deep sky of a summer's night." Her sonnet, "A Remem- 
brance of Grasmere," written four years afterwards, describes the peculiar 
coloring with which her imagination invested it : — 

" O vale and lake, within your mountain urn 
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! 
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return. 
Coloring the tender shadows of my sleep 
With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float 
On golden clouds from spirit lands remote — 
Isles of the blest — and in our memory keep 
Their place with holiest harmonies." 
' In reference to the notice of the " Scenes and Hymns," she writes : " The 
volume is recognized as my best work, and the course it opens out called ' a 
noble path.' My heart is growing faint — shall I have power given me to 
tread that way much further ! I trust that God may make me submissive to 
his will, whatever that will may be," 

31* 



358 HEMANS. [WILLIAM IV. 

"Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
Even while with us thy footsteps trod, 

His seal was on thy brow. 
Dust to its narrow house beneath! 

Soul to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die." 

If Mrs. Hemans' poetry be not of the very highest order, it is distin- 
guished for its pure fancy, beautiful imagery, and melodious versification. 
Many of her shorter pieces and her lyrical productions are touching and 
beautiful, both in sentiment and expression, while everything that she wrote 
is full of elevated moral feeling, and combines much energy of thought 
with a winning grace and delicacy of sentiment.* 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I come, I come! ye have called me long, 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ; 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers : 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes. 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free, 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 

And the moss looks bright where my step has been. 

I have sent through the woodpaths a gentle sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky. 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime. 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. 

» " We do not hesitate to say that she is, beyond all comparison, the most 
touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses that our literature has 
yet to boast of." — BclinUirgh Revietv, vol. 1. p. 47. 

" In our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and language ; 
her later poems are of higher promise ; they are vigorous, picturesque, and 
pathetic." — Quarterly Review^ vol. xxiv. p. 139. 



1830-1837.] HEMANs. 359 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ; 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs. 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come ! 
Where the violets lie may now be your home. 
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ; 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay. 
Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ; 
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ; 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, 

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ; 

For me, I depart to a brighter shore — 

Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. 

I go where the loved who have left you dwell. 

And the flowers are not Death's — fare ye well, farewell! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side. 
They filled one home with glee ; 

Their graves are severed, far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forests of the west. 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one. 

He lies where pearls lie deep; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapt his colors round his breast, 

On a blood red field in Spain. 



360 HEMANS. [WILLIAM IV. 

And one — o'er her myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; 
She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 

The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 

Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent knee! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall. 

And cheered with song the hearth — 
Alas! for love, if thou wert all, 

And naught beyond, on earth ! 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, 
Thou hollovz-sounding and mysterious main? 

Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow colored shells. 
Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain. 

Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! 

We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, 
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! 

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 
Won from ten thousand royal argosies. 

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! 
Earth claims not these again ! 

Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves have rolled 

Above the cities of a world gone by! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! 
Dash o'er them, Ocean ! in thy scornful play, 
Man yields them to decay! 

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! 

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar — 

The battle thunders will not break their rest. 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long; 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrovvn — 
But all is not thine own! 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down ; 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 



1830-1837] HEMANS. 361 

O'er youth's bright ^cks, and beauty's flowery crown ! 

Yet must tliou hear a voice — Restore the dead! 
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! — 
Restore the dead, thou Sea ! 



THE STRANGER S HEART. 

The stranger's heart! oh! wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day; — 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed — 
His modier's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet, when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far, are those who prayed with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land — 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
Oh ! 'midst them all, when blest thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart. 



THE bride's FAREWELL. 

Why do I weep? — To leave the vine 

Whose clusters o'er me bend ; 
The myrtle, yet, oh ! call it mine ! 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 

Like shadows o'er me sweep ; 
I leave my sunny childhood here; 

Oh therefore let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! We have played 

Through many a joyous hour. 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been, as we may be no more ; 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 



362 HEMANS. [WILLIAM IV. 

I leave thee, father! Eve's briflit moon 

Must now light other feet, 
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child 

Lay tones of love so deep. 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled ; 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 

Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast, 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless — yet I go! 
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain, 

Eyes, that have watched my sleep. 
Will earth give love like yours again? 

Sweet mother! let me weep! 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o"er. 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came — 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear; 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amid the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rans 
To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared; 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amid that pilgrim band; 
Why had they come to wither there. 

Away from their childhood's land ? 



II 



1830-1837.] HEMANS. 363 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Aye, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod! 
They have left unstained what there they found, 

Freedom to worship God ! 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

The stately Homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees. 

O'er all the pleasant land. 
The deer across their green-sward bound. 

Through shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England! 

Around their hearths by night. 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light! 
There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The Cottage Homes of England! 

By thousands on her plains. 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves, 
And fearless there the lowly sleep. 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 



364 HEMANS. [WILLIAM IV. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall ! 
And green forever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God ! 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 

"Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him 
Who giveth, upbraiding not. 
That his light in thy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 

Bernard Barton. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
A faint and starry radiance through the gloom 

And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, 
With all their clust'ring locks, untouch 'd by care, 
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer. 

Gaze on — 'tis lovely! — childhood's lip and cheek, 

Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 
Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek. 

And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? 
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 
What death must fashion for eternity ! 

O ! joyous creature ! that will sink to rest 

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done. 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, j 

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — ) 

Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies J 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. J 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs j 

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, ; 

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings * 

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 

Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep i 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, j 

And sum less riches, from affection's deep, | 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! ^ 

And to make idols, and to find them clay, . 

And to bewail that worship — therefore pray ! 



1830-1837.] HEMANS. 365 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 
And, oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray ! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time. 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, 

On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 

Earth will forsake — ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. 



BRING FLOWERS. 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 

To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured: 

Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale : 

Their breath floats out on the southern gale ; 

And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, 

To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, 

They have tales of the joyous woods to tell ; 

Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky. 

And the bright world shut from his languid eye : 

They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours. 

And the dream of his youth — bring him flowers, wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth ; 
Her place is now by another's side — 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride! 

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead! 

For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, 

For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 

Though they smile in vain for what once was ours. 

They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, 

They are nature's offering, their place is there! 

They speak of hope to the fainting heart. 

With a voice of promise they come and part ; 

They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 

They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright flowers! 

32 



866 HEMANS. [WILLIAM IV. 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye, 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Call'd thy harvest work to leave, 
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land. 
Far from thine own household band 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
Sailor on the darkening sea — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie, 
Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



THE AGONY IN THE GARDEN, 

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and prayed, 

When but his Father's eye 
Looked through the lonely garden's shade 

On that dread agony; 
The Lord of All above, beneath, 
Was bowed with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour. 
The stars might well grow dim. 

When this mortality had power 
So to o'ershadow Him ! 

That He who gave man's breath might know 

The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all! — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All gathered round his head; 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray — 
Yet passed it not, that cup, away! 



1830-1837.] DRAKE. 367 

It passed not — though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath his tread ; 
It passed not — though to him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent him from on high 
A gift of strength for man to die. 

And was the sinless thus beset 

With anguish and dismay 1 
How may we meet our conflict yet 

In the dark narrow way? 
Through Him — through Him, that path who trod — 
Save, or we perish, Son of God! 



NATHAN DRAKE, 1766—1836. 

•Dr. Nathan Drake, the distinguished essayist, v.'as born in the city of 
York, on the 15th of January, 1766, and, after completing his collegiate and 
professional education at the University of Edinburgh, finally settled at 
Hadleigh, in the county of Suffolk, in 1792, where he practiced as a physi- 
cian for forty-four years. In 1807, he married Miss Rose, of Brenttenham, 
in Suffolk, by whom he had several children, three of which died young. 
He himself departed this life, on the 7th of June, 1836, in his seventy-first 
year. 

As a medical practitioner, Dr. Drake was deservedly respected and 
esteemed by his professional brethren for his courtesy and skill ; and yet 
more endeared to all whom he attended by the urbanity of his manners and 
the unaffected kindness of his heart. "It may be said of him," says a con- 
temporary,^ " with perfect truth, that, in a professional and literary career of 
near half a century, amid all the turmoils of mere party strife and conten- 
tious rivalry, he so pursued the even tenor of his way as never to have 
lost, by estrangement, a single friend, or made one enemy." 

But it is with the literary character of Dr. Drake that we have mainly to 
do in this work, and here I must express my deep and lasting gratitude to 
him for the great entertainment and the valuable instruction his writings 
afforded me in years long gone by. Indeed, if I were called to name the 
writer in the lighter walks of English literature who, by his essays and 
ingenious illustrations of our standard authors, is most calculated to refine 
the taste and to excite an ardent thirst for reading and literary pursuits, I 
should name Dr. Nathan Drake. His " Literary Hours," in three volumes, 
contain a series of most instructive papers upon various authors and subjects 
of a literary character; while his " Essays on the ' Tatler,' 'Guardian,' 
'Spectator,' 'Rambler,' and 'Idler,' " embody a mass of interesting and 

» •' Gentleman's Magazine'' for August, 1836, p. 216. 



368 DRAKE. [WILLIAM IV. 

valuable information, such as can nowhere else, to my knowledge, be found 
in our language. Another of his valuable. works is entitled " Shakspeare 
and his Times :" this includes a biography of the poet; criticisms on his 
genius ; a new chronology of his plays ; and throws much light upon the 
manners, customs, amusements, superstitions, poetry, and elegant litera- 
ture of that age. His " Winter Nights," in two volumes ; "Evenings in 
Autumn," two volumes ; and "Mornings in Spring," two volumes, con- 
tain essays of a miscellaneous character — critical, narrative, biographical, 
and descriptive. They are pleasing and elegant in their style, and evince 
great delicacy and discrimination of taste, unvarying kindness of heart, and 
purity of moral feeling. In all his criticisms, he seemed to look chiefly at 
what was beautiful or pleasing, deeming it quite as much the province of 
the critic to hold up the beauties of an author for imitation and admiration 
as to detect his faults and expose them for censure. Indeed, both as 
an author and as a man. Dr. Drake was kindness, courtesy, and candor 
personified, and no one can read his eminently instructive writings without 
feeling that they are the productions of a pure and benevolent, as well as 
a well-stored mind, united to a highly refined and dehcate taste. 



THE MORAL TENDENCY OF ADDISON'S WRITINGS. 

The great object whicli Addison ever steadily held in view, and 
to which his style, his criticism, his humor and imagination are 
alike subservient, was the increase of religious, moral, and social 
virtue. Perhaps to the writings of no individual, of any age or 
nation, if we except the result of inspiration, have morality and 
rational piety been more indebted than to those which form the 
periodical labors of our author. 

That he was enabled to effect so much improvement, and to 
acquire a kind of moral dominion over his countrymen, must be 
ascribed, in a great measure, to that suavity of disposition and 
goodness of heart so visible throughout all his compositions, and 
which give to his reproof and censure, his precepts and admoni- 
tions, the air of parental affection and monitory kindness. 

Upon this principle are all the moral and critical essays of our 
author conducted, whether they assume the severer features of 
preceptive wisdom, or beam with the smiles of gayety and humor. 
He has consequently reprobated in strong terms that spirit of 
defamation and revenge, of recrimination and abuse, which sullies 
and destroys all the beneficial effect of satire, and converts the 
man who has recourse to such weapons into little better than an 
assassin. 

With equal consistency and propriety he exposes that false zeal 
which, whether in the cause of religion or politics, hesitates not 



1830-1837.] DRAKE. 

to employ the basest means for the supposed sanctity or import- 
ance of the end in view. The two papers that he has written on 
these subjects* exhibit his knowledge of mankind, his good sense 
and purity of principle, in a full and very striking light. With- 
out a certain species of enthusiasm or zeal, indeed, it is probable 
nothing great or good can be effected in society; but when this 
passes beyond due bounds, owing either to vicious motives or a mis- 
taken sense of virtue, it is productive of great and incalculable 
mischief. " I love to see a man zealous in a good matter," says 
our amiable author, ^^ and especially when his zeal shows itself 
for advancing morality, and promoting the happiness pf mankind. 
But when I find the instruments he works with are racks and gib- 
bets, galleys and dungeons; when he imprisons men's persons, con- 
fiscates their estates, ruins their families, and burns the body to 
save the soul, I cannot stick to pronounce of such a one that 
(whatever he may think of his faith and religion) his faith is vain, 
and his religion unprofitable."^ 

On education and the domestic virtues, and on the duties incum- 
bent on father, husband, wife, and child, the precepts of our author 
are numerous, just, and cogent, and delivered in that sweet, in- 
sinuating style and manner which have rendered him beyond 
comparison the most useful moralist this country ever possessed. 
The imagery by which he indicates the efiect and force of educa- 
tion is singularly happy and appropriate ; the hint is taken from 
Aristotle, who affirms that in a block of marble, the statue which 
the sculptor ultimately produces is merely concealed, and that the 
efiect of his art is only to remove the surrounding matter which 
hides the beauteous figure from the view. ^^ What sculpture is to 
a block of marble," says Addison, "education is to a human soul. 
We see it sometimes only begun to be chipped; sometimes rough- 
hewn, and 'but just sketched into an human figure; sometimes we 
see the man appearing distinctly in all his limbs and features, 
sometimes we find the figure wrought up to a great elegancy ; but 
seldom meet with any to which the hand of a Phidias or Praxi- 
teles could not give several nice touches and finishings."^ * * 

The siveetness and placiditi/ of Addison's disposition happily 
led him to expatiate on topics intimately connected with, and pro- 
ductive of, the temper and frame of mind of which he himself ex- 
hibited so delightful an example. Hence his essays on " Con- 
tentment," on "Cheerfulness," and on "Hope," are some of the 
most interesting and pleasing of his productions. 

' " Spectator," vol. iii. No. 185, and vol. vii. No. 507. 
' Ibid., No. 185. ^ Ibid., No. 215. 

32* 



370 DRAKE. [WILLIAM IV. 

He well knew that the best ingredients in the cup of human 
life were regulated desires anjd subdued expectations ; and that he 
would be little liable to disappointment, and most able to bear up 
under affliction, who looked forward not to this, but to a future life 
for what is usually called happiness. " The utmost we can hope 
for in this world,'^ he observes, ^^is contentment; if we aim at 
anything higher, we shall meet with nothing but grief and disap- 
pointment." A man should direct all his studies and endeavors 
at making himself easy now and happy hereafter 3^ a truth which 
cannot be too strongly or frequently impressed upon the mind ; 
and to which, in addition to what I have already said upon the 
same subject, in my observations on Steele, I am now willing to 
add the authority and experience of Addison. 

For, trust me, one protecting shed, 
And nightly peace, and daily bread. 
Is all that life can give. 

Langhokne. 

Another very consolatory resource under adversity, and which 
might often reconcile us to apparent evils, has been very properly 
brought forward by our author as a powerful motive to content- 
ment. "Possibly," says he, "what we now look upon as the 
greatest misfortune is not really such in itself. For my own part, I 
question not but our souls in a separate state will look back on their 
lives in quite another view than what they had of them in the 
body; and that what they now consider as misfortunes and disap- 
pointments, will very often appear to have been escapes and bless- 
ings." 

The essays on " Cheerfulness"* present us with a most pleasing 
view of the author's habitual temper of mind, and are written with 
great perspicuity of argument, and in a strain of the most per- 
suasive eloquence. The definitions of mirth and cheerfulness with 
which the first essay opens are uncommonly just and beautiful. 
" Mirth," says he, " is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and 
permanent. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through 
a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment ; cheerfulness keeps 
up a kind of day-light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and 
perpetual serenity." He considers cheerfulness in three points of 
view, as it regards ourselves, or those we converse with, or the 
Author of our being ; and affirms that nothing but guilt or infi- 
delity ought reasonably to deprive us of its blessings. He details 
its salutary effects both upon the health of the body and mind, 
delivers observations on the goodness of the Deity in rendering 

' Spectator, No. 163. ' Ibid., Nos. 381, 387, 393. 



1830-1837.] DRAKE. 371 

creation in all its parts subservient to tlie promotion of this desir- 
able state, and concludes by recommending a taste for natural 
history, and by inculcating a religious sense of obligation to the 
Creator of all that is good and beautiful. " The cheerfulness of 
heart,^' he observes, " which springs up in us from the survey of 
nature's works is an admirable preparation for gratitude. The 
mind has gone a great way towards praise and thanksgiving that 
is filled with such secret gladness. A grateful reflection on the 
Supreme Cause who produces it sanctifies it in the soul, and gives 
it its proper value. Such an habitual disposition of mind conse- 
crates every field and wood, turns an ordinary walk into a morn- 
ing or evening sacrifice, and will improve those transient gleams 
of joy which naturally brighten up and refresh the soul on such 
occasions, into an inviolable and perpetual state of bliss and hap- 
piness." 

The piefi/ of Addison was founded on a clear and rational view 
of the attributes of the Deity, and of the doctrines of Christianity; 
and in the " Spectator" more especially, he has seized every oppor- 
tunity of supporting and illustrating the great and momentous 
truths of natural and revealed religion. His essays on " the Su- 
preme Being,"^ on the " Omnipresence of the Deity,"^ and on the 
"Immortality of the Soul,"^ exhibit the power and goodness of the 
Creator in a manner at once sublime and philosophic. I con- 
sider, indeed, the paper on " Omnipresence and Omniscience" as 
one of the most perfect, impressive, and instructive pieces of com- 
position that ever flowed from the pen of an uninspired moralist.'* 

Of the literary character of Addison, the preceding essays have 
attempted to delineate the leading features, and will, it is proba- 
ble, impress upon the mind of the reader a very high idea of its 
excellence and utility. To him, in the first place, may we ascribe 
the formation of a style truly classical and pure, whose simplicity 
and grace have not yet been surpassed, and which, presenting a 
model of unprecedented elegance, laid the foundation for a general 
and increasing attention to the beauty and harmony of composi- 
tion. 

His critical poioers were admirably adapted to awaken and in- 
form the public mind ; to teach the general principles by which 
excellence may be attained ; and, above all, to infuse a relish for 
the noblest productions of taste and genius. 

In humor, no man in this country, save Shakspeare, has ex- 
celled him ; he possessed the faculty of an almost intuitive discri- 

' " Spectator," vol. vii. No. 531. ^Ibid. vol. iii. No. 565. =* Ibid. vol. 
ii. No. 111. * See " Compendium of English Literature," p. 301. 



372 DRAKE. [WILLIAM IV. 

mination of what was ludicrous and characteristic in each indivi- 
dual, and, at the same time, the most happy facility in sf) tinting 
and grouping his paintings that, whilst he never overstepped the 
modesty of nature, the result was alike rich in comic effect, in 
warmth of coloring, and in originality of design. 

Though his "poetry^ it must be confessed, is not remarkable for 
the energies of fancy, the tales, visions, and allegories dispersed 
through his periodical writings make abundant recompense for 
the defect, and very amply prove that, in the conception and exe- 
cution of these exquisite pieces, no talent of the genuine bard, 
except that of versification, lay dormant or unemployed. 

It is, however, the appropriate, the transcendent praise of Ad- 
dison that he steadily and uniformly, and in a manner peculiarly 
his own, exerted these great qualities in teaching and dissemi- 
nating a love for morality and religion. He it was who, follow- 
ing the example of the divine Socrates, first stripped philosophy 
in this island of her scholastic garb, and bade her, clothed in the 
robes of elegant simplicity, allure and charm the multitude. He 
saw his countrymen become better as they became wiser ; he saw 
them, through his instructions, feel and own the beauty of holi- 
ness and virtue ; and for this we may affirm, posterity, however 
distant or refined, shall revere and bless his memory. 



INFLUENCE OF THE TATLER, GUARDIAN, AND SPECTATOR. 

To the periodical writings of Steele and Addison we are in- 
debted for a most faithful and masterly delineation of the taste, 
the manners, and morals which prevailed during the eventful 
reign of Queen Anne ; a portrait, indeed, by many degrees more 
highly finished than any which can be produced of preceding or 
subsequent periods. * * 

That it was the constant endeavor of Steele and Addison to cor- 
rect the vices, ridicule the follies, and dissipate the ignorance 
which too generally prevailed at the commencement of the 
eighteenth century, equally appears from their professions, and the 
tendency of their productions. This great, this noble object, the 
" Spectator'' ever holds in view; and he has taken an early oppor- 
tunity of expressing, in the most clear and decided language, what 
were his views and wishes, and what were the means which he 
had adopted for the purpose of carrying his intentions into execu- 
tion. '' I shall endeavor," he observes, " to enliven morality with 
wit, and to temper wit with morality, that my readers may, if 



1830-1837.] DRAKE. 373 

possible, both ways find their account in the speculation of the 
day. And to the end that their virtue and discretion may not be 
short, transient, intermitting starts of thought, I have resolved to 
refresh their memories from day to day, till I have recovered them 
out of that desperate state of vice and folly into which the age is 
fallen. The mind that lies fallow but a single day sprouts up in 
follies that are only to be killed by a constant and assiduous 
culture. It was said of Socrates that he brought philosophy 
• down from heaven, to inhabit among men ; I shall be ambitious 
to have it said of me, that I have brought philosophy out of closets 
and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, 
at tea-tables and in coffee-houses."* 

Of the success which attended the efforts of Steele and Addison, 
in the reformation and improvement of their own immediate age, 
nothing can afford so decisive a proof as the opinions of contempo- 
raries competent to form a just estimate of the result of their labors.* 

* "Spectator," No. 10. 

<< It is incredible to conceive the effect his writings have had on the town ; 
how many thousand follies they have either quite banished, or given a very 
great check to ; how much countenance they have added to virtue and reli- 
gion ; how many people they have rendered happy, by showing them it was 
their own fault if they were not so ; and lastly, how entirely tl^ey have con- 
vinced our fops and young fellows of the value and advantages of learning. 
He has, indeed, rescued it out of the hands of pedants and fools, and discovered 
the true method of making it amiable and lovely to all mankind. In the dress 
he gives it, it is a most welcome guest at tea-tables and assemblies, and is 
relished and caressed by the merchants on the Change. Lastly, his writings 
have set all our wits and men of letters upon a new way of thinking, of which 
they had little or no notion before ; and though we cannot yet say that any of 
them have come up to the beauties of the original, I think we may venture to 
affirm that every one of them writes and thinks much more justly than they 
did some time since." — The Present State of Wit ; in a Letter to a Friend 
in the Cotmtry, by the poet Gay. First printed in May, 1711. 

" All the pulpit discourses of a year scarce produced half the good as flowed 
from the < Spectator' of a day. They who were tired and lulled to sleep by a 
long and labored harangue, or terrified at the appearance of large and weighty 
volumes, could cheerfully attend to a single half-sheet, where they found the 
images of virtue so lively and amiable, where vice was so agreeably ridiculed, 
that it grew painful to no man to part with his beloved follies ; nor was he 
easy till he had practised those qualities which charmed so much in specula- 
tion. Thus good nature and good sense became habitual to their readers. 
Every morning they were instructed in some new principle of duty, which 
was endeared to them by the beauties of description, and thereby impressed 
on their minds in the most indelible characters. 

" Such a work as this, in a Roman age, would have been more glorious than 
a public triumph : statues would have been raided, and medals have been 
struck in honor of the authors. Antiquity had so high a sense of gratitude for 
the communication of knowledge, that they worshipped their lawgivers, and 
deified the fathers of science. How then must they have acknowledged ser- 
vices like these, where every man grew wiser and better by the fine instruc- 
tion."— See ''An Essay, sacred to the memory of Sir Richard Steele,'' ori- 
ginally printed, immediately after his death, in the "British Journal, or the 
Censor," Sept. 13th, 1729. 



374 DRAKE. [WILLIAM IV. 

These contemporary testimonies are sucli as fully prove that the 
noble plan which Addison and Steele had formed for the reforma- 
tion and instruction of their fellow-subjects was rapidly and ex- 
tensively carried into execution, and that they had the felicity of 
themselves witnessing in part the amelioration to which they so 
largely contributed. 

It will be necessary and useful, however, to dwell somewhat 
more minutely upon the improvements which taste and literature, 
manners and morals, received from these celebrated writers, who, • 
in fact, produced a new era in that most important of all concerns, 
the diffusion of practical knowledge and philosophy. 

The acquisition of a popular relish for elegant literature may be 
dated, indeed, from the period of the publication of the " Tatler j" 
to the progress of this new-formed desire, the " Spectator and 
Gruardian" gave fresh acceleration; nor has the impulse, which 
was thus received, for a moment ceased to spread and propagate 
its influence through every rank of British society. To these 
papers, in the department of polite letters, we may ascribe the 
following great and never-to-be-forgotten obligations. They, it 
may be affirmed, first pointed out in a popular way, and with in- 
sinuating address, the best authors of classical antiquity and of 
modern times, and infused into the public mind an enthusiasm for 
their beauties; they, calling to their aid the coloring of humor and 
imagination, effectually detected the sources of bad writing, and 
exposed to never-dying ridicule the puerilities and meretricious 
decorations of false wit and bloated composition ; they first ren- 
dered criticism familiar and pleasing to the general taste, and 
excited that curiosity, that acuteness and precision, which have 
since enabled so many classes of readers to enjoy, and to appre- 
ciate with judgment, the various productions of genius and learning. 

To the essays of Addison, in particular, are we likewise indebted 
for the formation of a style, beyond all former precedent, pure, 
fascinating, and correct ; that may be said to have effected a revo- 
lution in our language and literature, and which, notwithstanding 
all the refinements of modern criticism, is still entitled to the 
praise of a just and legitimate model. 

If in taste and literature such numerous benefits were conferred 
upon the people through the medium of these papers, of still 
greater importance were the services which they derived from 
them in the department of manners and morals. Both public 
and private virtue and decorum, indeed, received a firmer tone 
and a finer polish from their precepts and examples ; the acrimony 
and malevolence that had hitherto attended the discussion of poli- 
tical opinion were, in a short time, greatly mitigated; and the 



1830-1837.] DRAKE. 375 

talents wbicli had been almost exclusively occupied by contro- 
versy, were diverted into channels, where elegance and learning 
mutually assisted in refining and purifying the passions. * * 

Nor were the admonitions of the " Spectator'^ confined to topics 
merely of a moral or ethic nature, or to the regulation of manners 
and social intercourse; the weightier and more awful concerns 
which religion should awaken in the human breast were never 
treated in a way better calculated to amend the heart, and inform 
the understanding of the multitude, than by Addison in his Satur- 
day papers. These admirable essays, while they excited and kept 
alive attention by their beauty of diction and felicity of illustra- 
tion, and by the benevolent and tender enthusiasm which animated 
their pages, at the same time very powerfully elevated and ex- 
panded the mind, by the dignity of their theme and the purity of 
their sentiments; an union of qualities which strongly recom- 
mended them to readers of all classes : for, by appealing to the 
general feelings of our nature, they alike fascinated the simple 
and the devout, the learned and the refined, who to an extent 
hitherto perhaps unequalled, agreed in applauding their execu- 
tion, and profiting by their subject. 

The result, indeed, of the publication of the " Tatler," ''Spec- 
tator," and " Gruardian," has been of the first national importance. 
The difi"usion of private virtue and wisdom must necessarily tend 
to purify and enlighten the general mass ; and experience in every 
age has proved that the strength, the weight, and prosperity of a 
nation are better founded on knowledge, morality, and sound 
literature, than on the unstable eiFects of conquest or commerce. 
Rational liberty, indeed, can only be supported by integrity and 
ability; and it is of little consequence to the man who feels for 
the honor of his species, and who knows properly to value the 
character of a freeman, that his country has stretched her arms 
over half the globe, if, at the same time, she be immersed in vice, 
in luxury, and sensuality, and subjected to the debasing caprice and 
control of tyranny. 

It is but just, therefore, to infer that the periodical writings of 
Addison and of Steele have contributed more essentially to the 
national good, to the political influence even, and stability, of the 
British empire, than all the eiForts of hoi' warriors, however great 
or glorious.^ By expanding the intellect, and improving the 

' " But if there be in glory aught of good, 
It may, by means far difterent, be obtained 
Without ambition, war, or violence : 
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent : 
By patience, temperance." 

Paradise Regained. 



876 DRAKE. [WILLIAM IV. 

morals of the people, by promoting liberal education and free 
inquiry, they have enabled the public to understand, and to appre- 
ciate duly, the principles of genuine liberty ; and consequently to 
value highly, and to defend strenuously, the constitution under 
which they live. They have, by directing and invigorating the 
energies of society, given a manly tone to the national character ; 
an effect which can never be elicited beneath the clouds of igno- 
rance and immorality, and which depends not upon the abilities 
of a few solitary statesmen, or the fleeting consequences of mili- 
tary prowess, but upon the majority of the people thinking and 
acting justly for themselves, from that knowledge of political good, 
and that rational love of their country, from those pure principles 
and virtuous motives, which could only have been disseminated 
through the medium of writers who, like the authors of the 
''Spectator," have permanently and extensively exerted their 
moral and intellectual influence over the general mind. 

In short, if we compare the state of society, private and public, 
as it existed previous and subsequent to the appearance of Addison 
and Steele, we shall not for a moment hesitate to assert, not only 
that Great Britain is indebted to these illustrious writers for a 
most salutary revolution in the realms of literature and taste, for 
a mode of composition which in a mere literary view has been of 
great and progressive utility ; but that a very large portion of the 
moral and political good which she now enjoys is to be ascribed 
to their exertions — to efforts which entitle them to the glorious 
appellations of genuine patriots and universal benefactors. 



CHARACTER OF DR. JOHNSON. 

Let us now recapitulate the various channels into which the 
efforts of Dr. Johnson were directed. 

As a Poet he cannot claim a station in the first rank. He is a 
disciple of Pope ; all that strong sentiment, in nervous language 
and harmonious metre, can effect, he possesses in a high degree. 
We may further affirm that his "London,'^ his ''Vanity of Hu- 
man Wishes," his "Prologue on the Opening of Drury-Lane 
Theatre," and his " Stanzas on the Death of Levet," will never die. 

To excellence as a Blhliograijlicr he had many pretensions; 
strength of memory, an insatiable love of books, and a most ex- 
traordinary facility in acquiring an intimacy with their contents. 
What he has produced in this department is not of much extent, 
but it is well performed. 



1830-1837.] DRAKE. 377 

His merits as a Biographer are so prominent as to be beyond 
all dispute. His Lives of Savage, of Cowley, of Dryden, and 
of Pope, are masterpieces, which, in many respects, can fear 
no rivalry. An intimate acquaintance with the human heart, 
and the most skilful introduction of moral and monitory precept, 
combine to render many of his productions under this head un- 
speakably valuable to the dearest interests of mankind. It must 
not be concealed, however, that they are occasionally deformed by 
his prejudices, his aversions, and his constitutional gloom. 

In his character as an Essayist, though essentially different 
in mode from, he ranks next in value to, Addison. He lashes 
the vices rather than ridicules the follies of mankind ; and his wit 
and humor are, by no means, so delicate and finely shaded as 
those of his predecessor. In force, in dignity, in splendor of elo- 
quence ; in correctness of style, melody of cadence, and rotundity 
of period; in precision of argument and perspicuity of inference, 
he is much superior to the author of the " Spectator -j" but, on the 
other hand, he must yield the palm in ease and sweetness, in sim- 
plicity and vivacity. The three great faults, indeed, of Johnson 
as an Essayist, are, a style too uniformly labored and majestic for 
the purposes of a popular essay, a want of variety in the choice of 
subject, and, in his survey of human life, a tone too gloomy and 
austere, too querulous and desponding. The " Eambler'^ is, how- 
ever, notwithstanding these defects, a work that, in vigor of exe- 
cution, and comprehensiveness of utility, will not easily be paral- 
leled; it is, in fact, a vast treasury of moral precept and ethic 
instruction. 

The reputation of Johnson as a PMlologer appears to be 
somewhat on the decline. The attention which has been lately 
paid to lexicography has laid open many omissions and defects 
in his Dictionary; but it should be considered that a work of this 
kind must necessarily be defective ; and that with our author rests 
the sole merit of having chalked out a plan, which, if not filled 
up by his own execution, must, there is every reason to think, be 
closely followed by his emulators, to attain the perfection at which 
he aimed. 

When we consider Johnson under the appellation of a JSFovelist, 
it is impossible not to regret that "Rasselas" is the only work 
on which he can properly found a claim to the title. Yet we must 
add that, if in beauty of imagery, sublimity of sentiment, and 
knowledge of men and manners, too much praise cannot be given 
to this philosophic tale, it is obligatory on us to confess that it is 
greatly deficient in two essential qualifications of a legitimate 
novel, plot and incident. ^^ Rasselas/' indeed, is merely the vehicle 
33 



378 DRAKE. [WILLIAM IV. 

of the author's opinions on human life, and which, we are sorry 
to remark, partake of the same gloom which darkens the pages of 
the " Rambler/' 

A very few lines will sketch our author's pretensions to the 
honors of a Commentator. The plan of his edition of Shak- 
speare has been much and justly admired ; and no greater proof 
can be given of its excellence than that every subsequent anno- 
tator has pursued the path which he had laid open. He was 
himself, however, too indolent, and too deficient in the very line 
of reading which he had recommended for the illustration of his 
bard, to carry his own instructions into effect ; his edition, there- 
fore, though it has been the parent of the best that we possess, is 
now of little value. 

Not much^ I am afraid, can be said in favor of our author as a 
Folitician. He was at one time a most furious Jacobite, and 
his tenets at all times, with regard to legislation, were vehement, 
confined, and partial ; so arbitrary, indeed, as to be frequently 
repugnant to the spirit of the British Constitution. He was, how- 
ever, a high-flown Tory on principle ; and his political pamphlets, 
though deficient in candor, display considerable subtlety in point 
of argument, and much energy and perspicuity of style. 

With a few deductions for prejudices which he had early im- 
bibed, his merits as a Tourist will appear great and unclouded. 
His object was to analyze and compare men, manners, and modes 
of life ; and his volume is at once elegant, philosophic, and ingeni- 
ous. 

That he is entitled, in the most honorable sense of the term, to 
the appellation of a Critic, those who shall merely peruse his 
Preface to Shakspeare, and his Lives of Cowley, Dryden, and 
Pope, will not probably deny. Since the days of Quintilian, 
indeed, no better specimens of criticism than these have been 
given to the world. How highly is it to be lamented then, that, 
prosecuting the study of his "Lives,'' we find the residue for the 
most part tinctured and deformed by relentless prejudices ; by 
party-zeal and unfeeling dogmatism; by a spirit systematically 
hostile to received opinion, and unfriendly to contemporary merit. 
With all these defects, however, and they are strikingly promi- 
nent, great has been the benefit derived to elegant literature from 
the publication of his " Critical Biography." It has established an 
era in the Republic of Letters; it has set an example in this coun- 
try, which has been assiduously followed, of recording the events 
attendant on the lives, the studies, and publications of literary 
men ; and it has given birth to a widely-extending taste for criti- 
cal disquisitions. 



1830-1837.] DRAKE. 379 

From tlie usual tenor of his style, it was not to be expected 
that our great moralist would excel as an Epistolary Writer. 
The letters of Johnson, however, though sometimes not entirely 
free from his customary elaboration, are, in general, graceful, 
easy, and perspicuous. They fully develop the character of the 
man , some are gloomy,* some pathetic and beautifully moral ; 
others lively, domestic, and interesting. If they canni)t be said 
to rival the letters of Cowper, yet will they still take their station 
among the best epistolary collections in our language. 

» Among the essays of Bishop Horne, is an admirable apology for the cha- 
racter of Dr. Johnson; which, as possessing so much truth, being so eloquent- 
ly written, and, at the same time, being the best defence hitherto published of 
this great man, will be read with interest : — 

"Johnson, it is said, was superstitious ; but who shall exactly ascertain to 
us what superstition is? The Romanist is charged with it by the Church-of- 
England man; the Churchman by the Presbyterian; the Presbyterian by the 
Independent ; all by the Deist ; and the Deist by the Atheist. With some, it is 
superstition to pray ; with others, to receive the sacrament ; with others, to 
believe in God. In some minds it springs from the most amiable disposition 
in the world : ' a pious awe, and fear to have offended ;' a wish rather to do 
too much than too little. Such a disposition one loves, and wishes always to 
find in a friend ; and it cannot be disagreeable in the sight of Him who made 
us. It argues a sensibility of heart, a tenderness of conscience, and the fear 
of God. Let him who finds it not in himself beware, lest, in flying from super- 
stition, he fall into irreligion and profaneness. 

"That persons of eminent talents and attainments in literature have been 
often complained of as dogmatical, boisterous, and inattentive to the rules of 
good breeding, is well known. But let us not expect everything from every 
man. There was no occasion that Johnson should teach us to dance, to make 
bows, or turn compliments. He could teach us better things. To reject 
wisdom, because the person of him who communicates it is uncouth, and his 
manners are inelegant, what is it but to throw away a pineapple, and assign 
for a reason the roughness of its coat ? 

" That Johnson was generous and charitable, none can deny. But he was 
not always judicious in the selection of his objects : distress was a sufficient 
recommendation, and he did not scrutinize into the failings of the distressed. 
May it be always my lot to have such a benefactor ! Some are so nice in a 
scrutiny of this kind that they can never find any proper objects of their 
benevolence, and are necessitated to save their money. It should, doubtless, 
be distributed in the best manner we are able to distribute it ; but what would 
become of us all if He, on whose bounty all depend, should be extreme to 
mark that which is done amiss? 

"It is hard to judge any man, without a due consideration of all circum- 
stances. Here were stupendous abilities, and suitable attainments ; but then 
here were hereditary disorders of body and mind reciprocally aggravating 
each other — a scrofulous frame, and a melancholy temper ; here was a life, 
the greater part of which passed in making provision for the day, under the 
pressure of poverty and sickness, sorrow and anguish. So far to gain the 
ascendant over these as to do what Johnson did, required very great strength 
of mind indeed. Who can say that, in a like situation, he should long have 
possessed, or been able to exert it ? 

"From the mixture of power and weakness in the composition of this won- 
derful man, the scholar should learn humility. It was designed to correct that 
pride which great parts and great learning are apt to produce in their posses- 
sor. In him it had the desired effect. For, though consciousness of superi- 
ority might sometimes induce him to carry it high with man (and even this 



380 DRAKE. [WILLIAM IV. 

The opinions and principles of the Doctor as a Theologian 
are chiefly to be gathered from his conversation, as preserved by 
Mr. Boswell, and from his prayers. He appears from these to 
have been a zealous High-churchman, with a strong bias towards 
some of the Roman Catholic tenets. His piety and devotion were 
warm and sincere ; and his prayers, the language of which is 
altogether^lain, simple, and unadorned, teach us that his faith, 
his humility, and gratitude, were great. From an ardent desire 
of further evidence with regard to the state of the departed, he 
was solicitous to ascertain the possibility of the reappearance of 
the dead. His anxiety on this subject rendered him superstitious, 
though not credulous ; for he was, in a very extraordinary degree, 
minute and cautious in examining the supposed proofs, and was, 

was much abated in the latter part of life), his devotions have shown to the 
whole world how humbly he walked at all times with his God. 

"His example may likewise encourage those of timid and gloomy disposi- 
tions not to despond when they reflect, that the vigor of such an intellect 
could not preserve its possessor from the depredations of melancholy. They 
will cease to be surprised and alarmed at the degree of their own suiferings ; 
they will resolve to bear, with patience and resignation, the malady to which 
they find a Johnson subject, as well as themselves : and if they want words, 
in which to ask relief from him who can alone give it, the God of mercy, and 
father of all comfort, language affords no finer than those in which his prayers 
are conceived. Child of sorrow, whoever thou art, use them — and be thank- 
ful that the man existed by whose means thou hast them to use ! 

"His eminence and his fame must of course have excited envy and malice; 
but let envy and malice look at his infirmities and his charities, and they will 
melt into pity and love. 

" That he should not be conscious of the abilities with which Providence 
had blessed him, was impossible. He felt his own powers ; he felt what he 
was capable of having performed ; and he saw how little, comparatively speak- 
ing, he had performed. Hence his apprehensions on the near prospect of the 
account to be made, viewed through the medium of constitutional and morbid 
melancholy, which often excluded from his sight the bright beams of divine 
mercy. May those beams ever shine upon us ! But let them not cause us to 
forget that talents have been bestowed, of which an account must be rendered ; 
and that the fate of the ' unprofitable servant' may justly beget apprehensions 
in the stoutest mind. The indolent man, who is without such apprehensions, 
has never yet considered the subject as he ought. For one person who fears 
death too much, there are a thousand who do not fear it enough, nor have 
thought in earnest about it. Let us only put in practice the duty of self-exami- 
nation ; let us inquire into the success we have experienced in our war against 
the passions, or even against imdue indulgence of the common appetites, eat- 
ing, drinking, and sleeping ; we shall soon perceive how much more easy it is 
to form resolutions than to execute them; and shall no longer find occasion, 
perhaps, to wonder at the weakness of Johnson. 

" The little stories of his oddities and his infirmities in common life will, 
after a while, be overlooked and forgotten ; but his writings will li\'e for ever, 
still more and more studied and admired, while Britons shall continue to be 
characterized by a love of elegance and sublimity, of good sense and virtue. 
The sincerity of his repentance, the steadfastness of his faith, and the fervor 
of his charity, forbid us to doubt that his sun set in clouds, to rise without 
them : and of this let us always be mindful, that every one who is made bet- 
ter bv his books will add a wreath to his crown." 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 381 

more than once, instrumental in detecting their fallacy, and ex- 
posing the arts of imposture. To many of his Sermons much 
praise is due for their perspicuity of style, their felicity of illus- 
tration, and their sound practical morality. 

We may, indeed, close this summary with the affirmation that, 
if Addison be excepted, no writer of the eighteenth century can 
be said to have contributed so highly, so copiously, and so perma- 
nently, to the improvement of our literature and language as 
Johnson. Whether considered as a Biographer, an Essayist, a 
Lexicographer, or a Critic, he is alike entitled to the gratitude of 
his country and of mankind. 



SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762—1837. 

Samuel Egerton Brydges, the distinguished antiquarian in EngUsh 
Literature, was the son of Edward Brydges, Esq., of Wootton Court, in 
Kent, and was born at that place on the 30th of November, 1762. After 
the usual preparatory studies, he entered Queen's College, Cambridge, in 
October, 1780, with the character of a good classical scholar, who excelled 
in the composition of Latin as well as English poetry. But he attended 
very little to the regular studies of the university, abandoning himself to 
the luxurious enjoyment of English poetry and belles-lettres. He therefore 
left Cambridge without a degree, and in the summer of 1782 entered the 
Middle Temple. }n November, 1787, he was called to the bar; but, 
according to his own acknowledgment, he never had sufficient perseverance 
to apply himself to the study of the law. 

Soon after his marriage in 1786, he took a house in London, where he 
resided for four years, when he purchased Denton, an estate near his native 
place in Kent, and removed thither. This was the beginning of great and 
protracted pecuniary embarrassments, which attended him through life. 
He had no knowledge whatever of business or of managing an estate; 
expended many thousand pounds in repairs and improvements which 
brought him no return; and was cheated by those to whom he intrusted 
the management of his affairs. So early did those embarrassments com- 
mence which embittered his latter days.' 

» In his <' Autobiography," he says, "my thought^ were always on my 
books, and among visions. I have an aversion to accounts, and nothing but 
the most pressing necessity could induce me to examine them. An agent soon 
finds out this, and step by step goes on from robbing to robbing, till nothing 
will satisfy his rapacity or his appetite. The difficulty of the task accumulates 
from day to day, and who that shrinks from examining a month's accounts 
will undertake to examine those of a year? I could not sift bills, cast up ac- 

33* 



882 BRYDGES. [WILLIAM IV. 

In 1790, after the death of the last Duke of Chandos, he preferred a 
claim to the Barony of Chandos, alleging his descent from a younger son 
of the first Brydges, who bore that title. The consideration of this claim 
was long procrastinated, but at length, in June, 1803, the House of Peers 
pronounced its decision "that the Petitioner had not made out his claim 
to the title and dignity of Baron Chandos." This decision had a -very un- 
happy influence upon him through life, and his disappointment, chagrin, 
and querulousness appeared, in some form or other, in most of his subse- 
quent publications. In ISIO, he removed from Denton to his son's house 
at Lee Priory, near Canterbury, and in 1812 obtained a seat in Parliament, 
where he distinguished himself by procuring some important improvement 
in the law of copyright. Upon the dissolution of that Parliament in 1818, 
he withdrew to the Continent, in consequence of his pecuniary embarrass- 
ments, and resided in Paris and Italy, but mostly at or near Geneva. Here 
he was constantly engaged in writing and editing books, until the time of 
his death, which took place at Campagne Gross Jean, on the 8th of Sep- 
tember, 1837, in the seventy-fifth year of his age.' Sir Egerton was twice 
married; by the first wife he had two sons and three daughters; by the 
second, five sons and five daughters. 

'^I'o no author of the present century is English literature more deeply 
indebted than to Sir Egerton Brydges, and in no one can be found finer 
passages of just thought, genial and tasteful criticism, pure and ennobling 
sentiment, and beautiful and eloquent writing. The branches of literature 
to which he chiefly devoted himself were poetry, romance, the republica- 
tion of old English poetry and genealogy. It would be hardly possible to 
enumerate all his works; but the following are the principal: — 

His first publication was a volume of Sonnets, in 1785 : some of these 
possess great merit, particularly one on Echo and Silence, which has been 
warmly praised by Wordsworth. In 1792, appeared "Mary de Clifford," 
a novel; in 1798 another, entitled "Arthur Fitz Albini;" and in 1800, 
" Theatrum Poetarum Anglicanorum," being a new edition, with addi- 
tions, of a work under the same title by Edward Philips, nephew of Milton. 

counts, examine prices, and make bargains. There was, therefore, every 
kind of mismanagement, and I soon became involved. * * I ^lived at a 
vast expense, without the smallest management ; my house was numerous, 
thoug-h not for show; my butcher's w^eekiybill amounted to a sum thatw^ould 
appear incredible ; and my horses ate up the produce of all my meadows and 
out-fields. I know not what my income was, but no doubt my expenditure 
exceeded it by many thousands.' I kept very imperfect accounts, and every 
one cheated me." 

» Of the latter period of his life he thus writes in his "Autobiography :" 
" Solitude is no terror to me, and so far therefore I am independent of the 
world's injuries. I keep my own hours ; the little sleep I take is by day ; and 
I toil through the long nights at the lamp. Thus I work without interruption 
in the repose of profound silence. Imagination supplies the want of those 
material objects which are vested in the mantle of darkness. Thus existence 
is even delightful to me in feeble old age, and in the midst of sorrow^s, priva- 
tions, indignities, and dangers. The.sc solemn times of night, which others 
lose in sleep, are not lost to me ; and thus I add to the duration of life beyond 
others of the same number of vears.'" 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 383 

In 1805, he commenced that curious and most valuable bibliographical and 
critical work, the " Censura Literaria," which was continued to the year 
1809, and forms ten volumes octavo.' In 1814, he published " Occasional 
Poems;" in 1818, " Excerpta Tudoriana, or Extracts from Elizabethan 
Literature;" in 1821, " Letters from the Continent;" in 1832, "Lake of 
Geneva," in two volumes; and in 1834, "Imaginary Biography," a work 
in which the literary characters of many English scholars are drawn with 
great fidelity, taste, and discrimination. In the same year he also published 
"The Autobiography, Times, Opinions, and Contemporaries of Sir Eger- 
ton Brydges."^ These are but a part of his works. He was also a large 
contributor to periodical publications, particularly to "The Gentleman's 
Magazine," on genealogy and antiquity. He also published an edition of 
" Milton's Poetical Works," enriched with his own tasteful and discrimi- 
nating remarks, and with a selection of notes from the best commentators, 
prefixed with a life of the great poet. This I consider, on the whole, the 
best edition of Milton. 

It has been most truthfully remarked that the student of English litera- 
ture is deeply indebted to Sir Egerton Brydges "for valuable accessions to 
our knowledge of our earliest writers— for fine and just trains of poetical 
criticism— for some touching and elegant poetry, and for a few ingenious tales 
of fiction." Indeed I know of no one who has written so much himself, and 

* Of this work, there were but one hundred copies printed. I have the good 
fortune to have one of them, in elegant binding, and consider it one of the most 
interesting and valuable books in my library, replete with sound criticisms 
and curious information, especially in old English literature. 

2 Of this remarkable book, a writer in the number of the "Gentleman's 
Magazine" for March, 1835, thus speaks: "In this singular work there are 
lofty conceptions enough to form a poet, and moral wisdom enough to make a 
sage. It is a book that to be estimated must be read with an honest and true 
heart; much must be forgiven, and much overlooked; but after all that is 
ofiensive, and all that is eccentric is removed from the service, there will re- 
main a knowledge, a power, a feeling, and a perseverance that must inspire 
respect and admiration. We hesitate not to say that in these volumes are some 
of the most beautiful passages that are to be found in English prose." 

" Were we (which Heaven forbid !) to educate a poet ; were we to feed him 
with the choicest honey-bread, which is royal food ; to inspire him with the 
noblest sentiments, expressed in the most masterly and harmonious language, 
we should send him into the woods, and by the sounding waters, with those 
very books which Sir Egerton so wisely edited." Again, the same charming 
critic remarks upon the studious habits of our best poets — "Look at all our 
great poets, and see the means which they took to obtain immortality. How 
laborious their studies, how large their materials, how extensive their erudi- 
tion, how vigorous their efforts, and how deep and majestic their repose I 
The example of Milton is in everyone's mouth; he wrote grammars, and 
compiled dictionaries, and taught obstinate little urchins, and constructed 
treatises of faith, and worried Hall, and abused Usher, and pelted Salmasius 
into Sweden, and pelted him out again; and then took wing, and soared away 
into Paradise. Pope, Butler, Akenside, Gray were all men of great reading 
and study, mdependent of their poetry. So it is down to Scott and Southey, 
and so must ever be. Beautiful as is the poetry of Goldsmith, it would be still 
more gratifying to the reader, if his knowledge had been more perfect, and his 
reasoning more orderly and accurate." 



384 BRYDGES. [WILLIAM IV. 

who, at the same time, has done so much to bring forward the writings of 
others— to bring out the hidden— to revive the forgotten— and to honor the 
neglected but true genius. We are most deeply indebted to him, too, for 
his labors of love upon our great Epic ; for no critic, not excepting Addison 
himself, has had a more just appreciation of the genius of Milion, or has 
criticised him with truer taste or sounder judgment. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

It was now resolved that Sir Walter should be brought to the 
bar of the King's Bench by habeas corpus, and execution awarded 
upon his former sentence. He was accordingly brought up, on 
October 28, 1618, though taken from his bed under the affliction 
of an ague fit. Execution was accordingly granted; and he was 
•delivered to the Sheriffs of Middlesex, and conveyed to the Gate 
House, near the Palace-yard. His heroism did not forsake him. 
To some, who deplored his misfortunes, he observed, with calmness, 
that ^'the world itself is but a larger prison, out of which some 
are daily selected for execution." • 

On Thursday, October 29th, he was conducted to the scaffold, 
in Old Palace-yard. His countenance was cheerful ; and he said, 
^'I desire to be borne withal, for this is the third day of my fever; 
and if I shall show any weakness, I beseech you to attribute it 
to my malady, for this is the hour in which it was wont to come." 
He then addressed the spectators in a long speech, which ended 
thus : — 

"And now I intreat you to join with me in prayer to the great 
God of Heaven, whom I have grievously offended, being a man 
full of all vanity, and have lived a sinful life, in all sinful callings — 
for I have been a soldier, a captain, a sea captain, and a courtier, 
which are courses of wickedness and vice — that God would forgive 
me, and cast away my sins from me, and that he would receive 
me into everlasting life. So I take my leave of you all, making 
my peace with God." 

When he bade farewell to his friends, he said, " I have a long 
journey to go, and therefore I will take my leave." Having asked 
the executioner to show him the axe, which the executioner hesi- 
tated to do, he said, "I prithee let me see it! Dost thou think I 
am afraid of it?" He then took hold of it, felt the edge, and, 
smiling, said to the sheriff, "This is a sharp medicine; but it is a 
physician for all evils." He forgave the executioner, and being 
asked which way he would lay himself on the block, he answered, 
" So the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lies." 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 385 

At two strokes his head was taken off, without the least shrink or 
motion of his body. * * * 

If there were no other blots in King James's reign, Raleigh's 
death alone would render it intolerable to every generous and re- 
flecting mind. When I consider what sort of talents and conduct 
covered Cecil's grave with wealth and honors, while those of Ra- 
leigh led him to the scaffold, and his posterity to extinction in 
poverty and ruin, my heart bursts with indignation and horror ! 

Raleigh's mind appears to have been characterized by boldness, 
and freedom from nice scruples, either in thought or action. 

He possessed all the various faculties of the mind in such ample 
degrees that, to whichever of them he had given exclusive or un- 
proportionate cultivation, in that he must have highly excelled. 
There are so many beautiful lines in the poem prefixed to Spenser's 
^' Fairy Queen," beginning "Methought I saw,"^ &c., that it is 
clear he was capable of attaining a high place among poetical 
writers. 

Do I pronounce Raleigh a poet? Not, perhaps, in the judg- 
ment of a severe criticism. Raleigh, in his better days, was too 
much occupied in action to have cultivated all the powers of a 
poet; which require solitude and perpetual meditation, and a re- 
finement of sensibility, such as intercourse with business and the 
world deadens. But, perhaps, it will be pleaded, that his long 
years of imprisonment gave him leisure for meditation more than 
enough. It has been beautifully said by Lovelace that 

" Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Nor iron bars a cage," 

SO long as the mind is free. But broken spirits, and indescribable 
injuries and misfortunes, do not agree with the fervor required by 
the muse. Hope, that "sings of promised pleasure," could never 
visit him in his dreary bondage; and ambition, whose lights had 
hitherto led him through difiiculties and dangers and sufferings, 
must now have kept entirely aloof from one whose fetters disabled 
him to follow as a votary in her train. Images of rural beauty, 
quiet and freedom, might, perhaps, have added, by the contrast, to 
the poignancy of his present painful situation; and he might 
rather prefer the severity of mental labor in unravelling the dreary 
and comfortless records of perplexing history in remote ages of 
war and bloodshed. 

We have no proof that Raleigh possessed the copious, vivid, 
and creative powers of Spenser; nor is it probable that any culti- 

» See this poem in '< Compendium of English Literature." 



386 BRYDGES. [WILLIAM IV. 

vation would have brought forth from him fruit equally rich. But 
in his poetry, I think we can perceive some traits of attraction and 
excellence which perhaps even Spenser wanted. If less diversi- 
fied than that gifted bard, he would, I think, have sometimes been 
more forcible and sublime. His images would have been more 
gigantic, and his reflections more daring. "With all his mental 
attention keenly bent on the busy state of existing things in po- 
litical society, the range of his thought had been lowered down 
to practical wisdom : but other habits of intellectual exercise, ex- 
cursions into the ethereal fields of fiction, and converse with the 
spirits which inhabit those upper regions, would have given a grasp 
and a color to his conceptions as magnificent as the fortitude of 
his soul. 

His " History of the World" proves the extent of his knowledge 
and learning, and the profundity of his opinions : and this written 
with a broken spirit, in prison, and under the pining health pro- 
duced by close air, and want of exercise and every cheering com- 
fort. How grand must have been his fiery feelings in the high 
hope of enterprise, bounding over the ocean, and with new worlds 
opening before him ! Well might Spenser call him '^ The Shep- 
herd of the Ocean." 

Raleigh was, above other men, one who had a head to design, 
a heart to resolve, and a hand to execute. He lived in an age of 
great men in every department; but, taking a union of splendid 
qualities, he was the first of that most brilliant and heroic epoch. 
He was not a poet of the order of Spenser and Shakspeare; but 
in what other gift and acquirement was he not first? 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 

Johnson, Joe Warton, and Tom Warion, in conference. 

Johnson. Poor dear Collins! the die is cast; his frightful fate 
seems irrecoverable. 

J. Warton. I am afraid so. Yet he is rational at times for a 
few minutes. 

Johnson. I thought he recognized me yesterday; I touched a 
favorite string, and his lips seemed to me to mutter the words, 
"Hah, Johnson, Johnson!" 

J. Warton. But they who attend him say he is always worse 
after he has seen old acquaintance; he becomes violent. 

T. Warton. A fortnight ago I had a conversation with him, 
in which he supported himself for above a quarter of an hour. 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 387 

Johnson. Were his ideas unlbroken ? 

T. IVarton. No: but there was less incoherence than I could 
have expected. In an instant he would fly away, and lose himself, 
and then stop; and then a flash would come again of what had 
gone; and he would resume for another minute or two: and then 
he would drop back on his couch, and sink into tears. It was a 
most painful interview : it shook me awfully. 

Johnwn. We cannot understand this part of the mental struc- 
ture ; it is a fearful mystery. 

J. Warton. It seems to me that the impressions are overlaid 
by the influx of some evil humors; and these the humors pass 
away, and the images revive; and so there is alternate darkness 
and light. 

Johnson. I wish I could analyze the subject, but I dare not 
attempt it. 

T. Warfon. He was sometimes very brilliant for half an idea, 
and then it went out like a flash of lightning; and he seemed 
horrified at his own loss of light. 

J. Warton. I have known him sometimes cry and sob like a 
child. 

Johnson. He is grieved at the consciousness of the impotence 
of his own faculties. 

J. Warton. He had great excellence of heart. 

T. Warton. He was tenderness itself. 

Johnson. And he had a strong head too, if we could have got 
rid of his romantic taste. * * 

T. Warton. Indeed he had a wonderful combination of ex- 
cellencies. United to a splendor and sublimity of imagination, 
he had a richness of erudition, a keenness of research, a nicety 
of taste, and an elegance and truth of moral reflection, which 
astonished those who had the luck to be intimate with him. 

Johnson. And yet all availed not to preserve a sound mind ! 
0, sad humanity ! 0, weak, lamentable state of existence ! 

Johnson never spoke of Collins personally without praise and 
fondness; but with a strange inconsistency he was severe and cen- 
sorious to his writings. He imputed to them faults of fact which 
do not exist ; such as harshness of language, and the cloy of con- 
sonants. This must have arisen from bigotry in a system of bad 
taste, joined perhaps by the extreme and immoral jealousy of his 
temper. He became the more obstinate in the force of his attack 
upon the literary genius of Collins, because Collins was a leader 
in the modern revival of this school of poetry, to which he had 
so habitually, and with so strong a prejudice, opposed himself. 



388 BRYDGES. [WILLIAM IV. 

Johnson prided himself upon what he called common sense; and 
was an observer — not a creator : he had no refinement of senti- 
ment, or picturesqueness of ideas; as his external senses were 
imperfect, his fancy was not filled with imagery; and he had no 
candor for that which disagreed with his own course of studies 
and pleasures. 

Collins remained many years in this state of alienation or defect 
of mind, till his death in 1759, in his thirty-ninth year, having 
died and been buried in his native city. He had some lucid in- 
tervals nearly to the last, and showed the Wartons liis*ode, or 
stanzas, on the "Superstitions of the Highlands," addressed to 
John Home; but he was subject to paroxysms of violence, and 
then his shrieks were heard in the most appalling manner echoing 
through the cathedral cloisters. As no fragments of his poetry 
are preserved, of the date of these latter days, his lucid intervals 
must have been of a very feeble kind. 



JOHN MILTON. 

Of this "greatest of great men" the private traits and whole 
life were congenial to his poetry. Men of narrow feeling will say 
that his political writings contradict this congeniality. His poli- 
tics were, no doubt, violent and fierce ; but it cannot be doubted 
that they were conscientious. He lived at a crisis of extraordinary 
public agitation, when all the principles of government were moved 
to their very foundations, and when there was a general desire to 
commence institutions de novo. 

His gigantic mind gave him a temper that spurned at all au- 
thority. This was his characteristic through life : it showed itself 
in every thought and every action, both public and private, from 
his earliest youth ; except that he did not appear to rebel against 
parental authority; for nothing is more beautiful than his mild 
and tender expostulation to his father. 

His great poems require such a stretch of mind in the reader, 
as to be almost painful. The most amazing copiousness of learn- 
ing is sublimated into all his conceptions and descriptions. His 
learning never oppressed his imagination; and his imagination 
never obliterated or dimmed his learning : but even these would 
not have done, without the addition of a great heart and a pure 
and lofty mind. 

That mind was given up to study and meditation from his boy- 
hood till his death : he had no taste for the vulgar pleasures of 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 389 

life; he was all spiritual. But he loved fame enthusiastically, 
and was ready to engage in the great affairs of public business; 
and when he did engage, performed his part with industry, skill, 
and courage. Courage, indeed, mingled, in a prominent degree, 
among his many other mighty and splendid qualities. 

Who is equal to analyze a mind so rich, so powerful, so exquisite ? 

I do not think that tenderness was his characteristic; and he 
was, above all other men, unyielding. His softer sensibilities 
were rather reflective than instantaneous: his sentiments came 
from his imagination, rather than his imagination from his senti- 
ments. 

The vast fruits of his mind always resulted from complex in- 
gredients; though they were so amalgamated that with him they 
became simple in their effects. It is impossible now to trace the 
processes of his intellect. We cannot tell what he would have 
been without study ; but we know that he must have been great 
under any circumstances, though his greatness might have been 
of a different kind. 

He made whatever he gathered from others his own; he only 
used it as an ingredient for his own combinations. 

His earliest study seems to have been the holy writings : they 
first fed his fancy with the imagery of eastern poetry; and no- 
where could he have found so sublime a nutriment. But what is 
any nutriment to him who cannot taste, digest, and be nourished ? 
It depends not upon the force and excellence of what is conveyed ; 
but upon the power of the recipient : it is, almost all, inborn genius, 
though it may be under the influence of some small modification 
from discipline. 

Superficial minds, affecting the tone of wisdom, hold out that 
the gifts of the Muse are incompatible with serious business. 
Milton, the greatest of poets, affords a crushing answer to this. 
In the flower of his manhood, and through middle age, he was a 
statist, and active man of executive affairs in a crisis of unexampled 
difiiculty and danger. His controversial writings, both in politics 
and divinity, are solid, vigorous, original, and practical; and yet 
he could return at last to the highest flights of the Muse, un- 
damped and undimmed. 

The lesson of his life is one of the most instructive that bio- 
graphy affords : it shows what various and dissimilar powers may 
be united in the same person, and what a grandeur of moral 
principles may actuate the human heart; but at the same time it 
shows how little all these combined talents and virtues can secure 
the due respect and regard of contemporaries. It is absurd to 
deny that Milton was neglected during his life, and that his 
34 



390 BRYDGES. [WILLIAM IV. 

unworldlymindedness let the meanest of the people mount over 
his head. He lived poor, and for the most part in obscurity. 
Even high employments in the state seem to have obtained him 
no luxuries, and few friends or acquaintance: no brother poets 
flocked round him; none praised him, though in the habit of 
flattering each other. 

If intellect is the grand glory of man, Milton stands pre-emi- 
nent above all other human beings; above Homer, Virgil, Dante, 
Petrarch, Tasso, Spenser, and Shakspeare! To the highest 
grandeur of invention upon the sublimest subject he unites the 
greatest wisdom and learning, and the most perfect art. Almost 
all other poets sink into twinkling stars before him. What has 
issued from the French school of poetry seems to be the produc- 
tion of an inferior order of beings, and in this I include even our 
Dryden and Pope; for I cannot place these two famous men 
among the greatest poets: they may be among the first of a 
secondary class. 

It is easy to select fine passages from minor poetical authors ; 
but a great poet must be tried by his entirety — by the uniform 
texture of his web. 

Milton has a language of his own; I may say, invented by 
himself. It is somewhat hard, but it is all sinew : it is not ver- 
nacular, but has a Latinized cast, which requires a little time to 
reconcile a reader to it. It is best fitted to convey his own mag- 
nificent ideas : its very learnedness impresses us with respect : it 
moves with a gigantic step : it does not flow, like Shakspeare's 
style, nor dance, like Spenser's. Now and then there are trans- 
positions somewhat alien to the character of the English language, 
which is not well calculated for transposition; but in Milton this 
is perhaps a merit, because his lines are pregnant with deep thought 
and sublime imagery, which require us to dwell upon them, and con- 
template them over and over. He ought never to be read rapidly : 
his is a style which no one ought to imitate till he is endowed 
with a soul like Milton's. His ingredients of learning are so 
worked into his original thoughts that they form a part of them; 
they are never patches. 



MILTON AND GRAY COMPARED. 

One should like to imagine the difierence of early character, 
habits, sentiments, pursuits, conduct and temper, between Milton 
and Gray; both sons of men following the same calling, both 
living in the bustle of the city, and both addicted to literary occu- 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 391 

pations. There was this primary diflference^ that Milton had a 
good father, and Gray a bad one. 

Milton was probably more stern; G-ray more tender and morbid : 
Milton more confident and aspiring ; Gray more fearful and hope- 
less. Each loved books and learning, and each had an exquisite 
taste. Milton was more vigorous; Gray more nice. Both were 
imaginative and fond of romantic fiction ; but Milton was more 
enterprising. Gray's fastidiousness impeded him; he was 

A puny insect, shivering at a breeze. 

Milton was dauntless, defiant, and, when insulted, fierce ; perhaps 
ferocious : nothing shook his self-reliance. Gray was driven back 
even by a frown. 

The ''Elegiac Bard'' might have done tenfold more than he did 
if he had been more courageous, but could never have done what 
Milton has done : he had not the same invention, nor the same 
natural sublimity, Milton was far the happier being, though he 
engaged in controversies which Gray's peaceful spirit would have 
avoided. Milton was a practical statesman; Gray would have 
been utterly unfit to engage in affairs of state. 

Gray's spirits were partly broken by the unprincipled and brutal 
conduct of his father to his mother; but they were naturally low: 
his inborn sensitiveness amounted to disease. He seems to have 
been more delicate and more precise in his classical scholarship, and 
more exact in all his knowledge; but it was not so mingled up 
with original thought, and therefore not so valuable : his memory 
was often mere memory, and therefore was exact. This did not 
arise from inability, but from timidity and indolence : he lived in 
the solemn and monotonous cloisters of a college; he had nothing 
of the ordinary movements of life to excite him : all the faculties 
of his mind, therefore, except his memory, were often stagnant. 
The memory works best when the passions are least moved. 

The dim, misty, gray hues of vacant despondence will chill the 
lips and palsy the voice. Who fears the ridicule or censure of 
men, but anticipates not the cheer of triumph, will want the 
sources of energy and enterprise. The blood must glow in the 
veins, and the heart must dance, to enable us to do great things. 

We cannot doubt that this was the case with Milton : many 
noble passages regarding himself in his prose works prove it : he 
nursed glorious and holy hopes from his childhood. Afterwards, 
in the midst of the foulest calumnies, he was undaunted and un- 
dismayed. Even in the most perilous times, when the ban of 
proscription and the sword of death were hanging over his head^ 



392 BRYDGES. [WILLIAM IV. 

he conceived and partly composed his " Paradise Lost." He had 
a spring of soul which nothing could relax. 

Magnanimity grows strong by opposition and difficulty; and 
when a difficulty is conquered, the energy is doubled; no one 
knows what powers are in him till he is pressed : when they come 
out from pressure, hope and confidence come with them. It is 
not till after we have been tried that we trust to ourselves : then 
we stand unmoved by the blast, and laugh at the storm. All 
genuine power grows more vigorous after it has been tried. 

Thousands go down to the grave, unconscious of the native 
faculties which, if exercised, might have distinguished them: but 
buried faculties are an incumbrance, and breed diseases; and it 
cannot be doubted that this was one of the maladies of Gray. 
Milton was never to be silenced : the fire within found vent ; and 
then his great heart was at ease, and triumphed. 



GIBBON. 

Gibbon had not the courage to give to the world his "Autobio- 
graphy" during his life. He was a wonderful man, but he had 
many vanities and some weaknesses. Colman has given a curious 
portrait of him, as inserted in a note of Croker's "Boswell." 
Rich as he was in erudition, and surely in genius — for what but 
genius could have put together in so luminous a manner such an 
incredible extent of chaotic materials? — he yet was in his manners 
and person a finical coxcomb. He lived in an age of ceremonials, 
which have now passed away; and he had a silly desire to be 
thought a man of fashion and fine gentleman — a mean ambition 
for a man of such a splendid and accomplished mind. But these 
little passions were superseded by more noble ones ; and he retired 
with an elevated courage to Lausanne, to spend his latter days in 
literature and his own thoughts, and the beautiful scenery of 
Switzerland, and on the banks of the sublime Genevan lake. His 
"Memoirs" are pleasing, and will always be an instructive record 
of indefatigable literary toil; but they are not, to my taste, of the 
highest class of memoirs; they partake a little of the quaintness 
of the author's manners. He appears too much in his full dress. 
They want energy, and simplicity, and frankness, and high bursts 
of eloquence. 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 393 



DOCTOR JOHNSON. 

Boswell's summary of Johnson's character does not seem to me 
very well done. Johnson was a moral philosopher and a critic, 
but had little fancy and no imagination. His strength lay in his 
quick powers of discrimination, and the ready and forcible lan- 
guage in which he expressed it. His opinions were the result of 
observation and reasoning, not of invention; and where he had 
imagery by way of illustration, it was seldom or never of a poetical 
character. There was a directness and self-confidence in his man- 
ner, which gave an effect to many things he said, not intrinsically 
due to them. He had been a great thinker, and therefore was 
prepared upon most subjects presented to him. He had read much 
by fits, and had digested what he had read. 

But his mind was bent to analyze, detect faults, and destroy 
charms. His ambition was to be the evil magician, at the touch 
of whose spear delusions fled. 

His " Rasselas'^ and his '^ Tour to the Hebrides" are supposed 
to have a poetical cast of language; but even here his images are 
vague, and his words more sounding than picturesque; they are 
oratorical more than poetical; there is more of swell than solidity. 

He always spoke ex cathedra, and had none but submissive 
listeners. He had lived among the chief literati oi the metropolis, 
at least from his twenty-fifth year, and was a master of the lite- 
rary history of his own time. He reflected upon facts, not upon 
visions — and therefore always seemed to have the acuteness of 
practical good sense. 

On almost all occasions he reasoned rather than felt, and there- 
fore had little sentiment. What he wrote critically came from the 
processes of his own mind, and what he wrote ornamentally was 
rather derived from the stores of his memory. 

He was an author to whom the booksellers were always glad to 
have resort, because on any proposed subject he had a prepared 
mind, and language always at his command. 

But, as he admitted nothing which stern reason cannot demon- 
strate, he neither communicated nor secretly cherished any of those 
spiritual dreams in which a poet delights. Such a mind is better 
fitted for conversation, because what it communicates is more com- 
prehensible by the generality of auditors. His desire of victory 
was so excessive as to be unjust, and his resentment of contradic- 
tion ferocious. 

Envy and jealousy had such dominion over him as to make 
34* 



394 BRYDGES. [WILLIAM IV. 

him mean and unpardonable in some of his censures. When he 
gave himself time to deliberate, he was benevolent and wise. I 
am far from denying that Johnson was a very great man in his 
own department; but then, as in the case of Pope, the character 
and rank of that department must not be mistaken. 

The first rank belongs to him who invents with grandeur, beauty, 
and truth, on probability. The inventive faculty will scarcely be 
conceded to Johnson; and that in which he did not excel himself, 
his envious temper prompted him to depreciate. 

Bos well strangely says that Johnson's mind was filled with 
imagery : it was not filled with imagery, but with reasonings laid 
up by constant meditation, and with which his memory always 
supplied him when called for. He never gazed upon visions, but 
argued to himself upon that with which experience and reading 
had furnished his recollection. Peruse his two celebrated satires 
— they have nothing of the higher ingredients of poetry in them ; 
no poetical imagery is to be found there ; they are the spiritual 
reflections or declamations of a moral philosopher, tinged with a 
deep melancholy, and plaintive from a sense of the sufferings, 
frailties, and imperfections of humanity. They have no inven- 
tion, no enthusiasm, none of those enchanting illusions by which 
our human existence is exalted into a higher sphere. It was 
wrong of him to endeavor to tear away these delights from others, 
because he could not enjoy them himself. 

Thus he treated the memory of his friend William Collins, with 
which I was shocked and disgusted, when his "Lives of the Poets" 
came out, and for which I could never afterwards forgive him. In 
that Life, while he speaks of the poet personally with kindness 
and sensibility, he shows a wanton absence of taste and imagina- 
tive feeling, and an ignorance or denial of the primary ingredients 
of poetry. 



SOLITUDE. 

Johnson ridicules those praises of solitude which break out 
from the heart of Cowley, as if they were insincere. Because he 
hated solitude himself, he thought no one else could love it. 
Cowley had lived in the bustle of a court, and seen all its false- 
hoods and impertinences. We may be sick of our own thoughts 
at last, and perhaps require some change ; but no one who knows 
the force of language can doubt Cowley's sincerity, unless he be 
blind with prejudice. There is scarcely any great poet who has 
not sung the praises of solitude with earnestness. 



1830-1837.] BRYDGES. 395 

Nothing is so common as the vanity of having a great number 
of acquaintance; and there can scarcely be a sillier vanity: it 
implies a hard obtrusiveness and a vacant mind. If we thus 
gained a knowledge of characters^ we should gain something ; but 
we thus see only the surface of mankind, and we habituate our- 
selves by the flutter of passing objects and transient views to lose 
all discrimination. A weak mind seeks thus to fill a vacuum, and 
thereby adds to its natural weakness. 



POSTHUMOUS FAME. 

He who is willing to enjoy the present moment, then to die, 
and leave no trace of his existence behind him, may do so if he 
can reconcile it to his own self-complacence. But it does not 
seem to be the sort of self-complacence which distinguishes human 
nature from brutes. We are taught to aspire, and to endeavor to 
make wings to rise above oblivion, when our bodies moulder in 
the grave. But it will be observed how few can do this with suc- 
cess. Is it, then, to be our fate to be tormented with a desire of 
what so few are formed by nature to attain ? But in proportion 
as the inborn faculties are narrow, the desires are probably limit- 
ed to narrow objects and narrow means. Every one flatters him- 
self that he can carve out for himself some ground of distinction. 
We must keep our mind in constant advance, by a progressive at- 
tention to those objects and means. To rest upon our oars, and 
work only at long intervals, will not do. 

Some think that genius will equally show itself in sunshine or 
in shade, and therefore that unpropitious circumstances will not 
account for mediocrity of merit. The lives of unfortunate men 
of genius do not justify this opinion, nor does reason justify it. 
Mental energy is partly generated by animal spirits; and who that 
is discouraged and neglected can feel the same animal spirits? 

All the advantages of education and art will do nothing without 
genius; and with how few, or rather without any of these, the 
bright flame of real genius will come forth. Witness in our days 
Burns and Bloomfield. They have some advantages over those 
better instructed, because they have stronger hope. Many writers 
of verses have a powerful memory, without any imagination at 
all; and some have a fancy which reflects with the faithfulness of 
a mirror, but cannot invent. But nothing less than invention — 
and noble and tender invention — will make a poet of any high 
order. We may give to our characters the lovely sensibility and 



396 ALISON. [victoria 

lofty thoughts which only exist in a few, and we may show the 
forms of humanity free from its blemishes and alloys; we may 
look on female beauty, and imagine that there dwells in it an 
angelic spirit; these are within the province of the truly inspired 
bard. But such notes are not reached except by the highly fa- 
vored of heaven. Thousands have felt the dim visions within, 
but have not been able to embody them : they have gone to their 
graves dissatisfied with themselves, and unknown to the world. 



THE CUNNING SUCCESSFUL IN 

Are the difficulties of life of a man's own creating, or may they 
not arise from fate and inevitable circumstances? What is called 
prudence is often nothing more than mean, dishonest, and wicked 
cunning. I would rather not succeed than succeed by such ways. 
I am fully aware that the crooked and secret road is the most pros- 
perous. There is little fair fighting ; it is all done by ambush and 
mines. The enemy's army is made up of miners, sappers, and 
tirailleurs. There may, however, be an openness beyond neces- 
sity ; and I believe that I have fallen into that error. One is not 
bound to lay bare one's breast merely to enable an assassin to 
plunge a dagger into it with the greater ease. Reserve is seldom 
amiable; but some portion of it is necessary. 

Who are the people that make fortunes? The crafty and the 
selfish, at the expense of wrong to others. All the alfjiirs of the 
world are managed by artifice and intrigue. These are carried 
into literature, which never succeeds without much contrivance 
and adroitness of address, A publisher cannot get ofi" a book by 
the mere force of its merit. Tricks wear out, but then new ones 
are discovered. Yet he who lives by artifice must be wretched : 
he must always be on the watch, and have no confidence in any- 
thing around him : as he deceives others, so he must always be 
fearful of beino; deceived. 



ARCHIBALD ALISON, ]75fi— 1S3S. 

A-RCiiiEALB Alison was the son of Andrew Alison, of Edinburgh, and 
was matriculated at Baliol College, Oxford, in 1775. After completing 



1837.] ALISON. 397 

his theological course of study, he was settled successively in two or three 
different parishes, and finally became the senior minister of St. Paul's Cha- 
pel, in his native city. In 1790, he published his admirable " Essays on 
the Nature and Principles of Taste," the work for which he is most distin- 
guished.' In 1814, he gave to the public two volumes of sermons, justly 
admired for the elegance and beauty of their language, and their gently 
persuasive inculcation of Christian duty. He died at Edinburgh in the 
year 1838, at the advanced age of eighty-two.^ 



INFLUENCE OF ASSOCIATION. 

There is no man who has not some interesting associations with 
particular scenes, or airs, or books, and who does not feel their 
beauty or sublimity enhanced to him by such connections. The 
view of the house where one was born, of the school where one 
was educated, and where the gay years of infancy were passed, 
is indifferent to no man. They recall so many images of past 
happiness and past affections, they are connected with so many 
strong or valued emotions, and lead altogether to so long a train 
of feelings and recollections, that there is hardly any scene 
which one ever beholds with so much rapture. There are songs, 
also, that we have heard in our infancy, which, when brought to 
our remembrance in after years, raise emotions for which we can- 
not well account ; and which, though perhaps very indifferent in 
themselves, still continue, from this association, and from the 
variety of conceptions which they kindle in our minds, to be our 
favorites through life. The scenes which have been distinguished 
by the residence of any person whose memory we admire, produce 
a similar effect. The scenes themselves may be little beautiful; 
but the delight with which we recollect the traces of their lives 
blends itself insensibly with the emotions which the scenery 
excites ; and the admiration which these recollections afford 
seems to give a kind of sanctity to the place where they dwelt, 

• In this he maintains " that all beauty, or, at least, that all the beauty of 
material objects depends on the associations that may have connected them 
with the ordinary affections or emotions of our nature ; and in this, which is 
the fundamental part of his theory, we conceive him to be no less clearly 
right than he is convincing and judicious in the copious and beautiful illustra- 
tion by which he has sought to establish its truth." Kead a most interesting 
article on " Beauty," in the " Encyclopaedia Britannica," by Lord Jeffrey, vol. 
iv. p. 481. 

= Read an article on «< Alison's Essays on Taste," in the ''Edinburgh Re- 
view," vol. xviii. p. 1; one on his "Sermons," vol. xxiii. p. 424; and another 
upon his " Sermons," in the " Quarterly Review," vol. xiv. p. 429. 



398 ALISON. [VICTORIA 

and converts everything into beauty wliich appears to have been 
connected with them. 

Essays on Taste . 



ON THE PLEASURE OF ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE. 

In every period of life, the acquisition of knowledge is one of 
the most pleasing employments of the human mind. But in 
youth, there are circumstances which make it productive of higher 
enjoyment. It is then that everything has the charm of novelty ; 
that curiosity and fancy are awake ; and that the heart swells with 
the anticipations of future eminence and utility. Even in those 
lower branches of instruction which we call mere accomplishments, 
there is something always pleasing to the young in their acquisi- 
tion. They seem to become every well-educated person; they 
adorn, if they do not dignify, humanity ; and, what is far more, 
while they give an elegant employment to the hours of leisure 
and relaxation, they afford a means of contributing to the purity 
and innocence of domestic life. 

But in the acquisition of knowledge of the higher kind — in the 
hours when the young gradually begin the study of the laws of 
nature, and of the faculties of the human mind, or of the magni- 
ficent revelations of the Gospel — there is a pleasure of a sublimer 
nature. The cloud which, in their infant years, seemed to cover 
nature from their view, begins gradually to resolve. The world 
in which they are placed opens with all its wonders upon their 
eye ', their powers of attention and observation seem to expand 
with the scene before them ; and, while they see, for the first time, 
the immensity of the universe of God, and mark the majestic 
simplicity of those laws by which its operations are conducted, 
they feel as if they were awakened to a higher species of being, 
and admitted into nearer intercourse with the Author of Nature. 

It is this period, accordingly, more than all others, that deter- 
mines our hopes or fears of the future fate of the young. To feel 
no joy in such pursuits, to listen carelessly to the voice which 
brings such magnificent instruction, to see the veil raised which 
conceals the counsels of the Deity, and to show no emotion at the 
discovery, are symptoms of a weak and torpid spirit — of a mind 
unworthy of the advantages it possesses, and fitted only for the 
humility of sensual and ignoble pleasure. Of those, on the con- 
trary, who distinguish themselves by the love of knowledge, who 
follow with ardor the career that is open to them, we are apt to 
form the most honorable presages. It is the character which is 



1837.] ALISON. 399 

natural to youth, and whicli, therefore, promises well of their 
maturity. We foresee for them, at least, a life of pure and vir- 
tuous enjoyment, and we are willing to anticipate no common 
share of future usefulness and splendor. 

In the second place, the pursuits of knowledge lead not only 
to happiness, but to honor. " Length of days is in her right 
hand, and in her left are riches and honor.'' It is honorable to 
excel even in the most trifling species of knowledge, in those 
which can amuse only the passing hour. It is more honorable to 
excel in those different branches of science which are connected 
with the liberal professions of life, and whicli tend so much to 
the dignity and well-being of humanity. It is the means of rais- 
ing the most obscure to esteem and attention ; it opens to the 
just ambition of youth some of the most distinguished and re- 
spected situations in society ; and it places them there with the 
consoling reflection that it is to their own industry and labor, in 
the providence of God, that they are alone indebted for them. 
But to excel in the higher attainments of knowledge, to be dis- 
tinguished in those greater pursuits which have commanded the 
attention and exhausted the abilities of the wise in every former 
age, is, perhaps, of all the distinctions of human understanding, 
the most honorable and grateful. 

When we look back upon the great men who have gone before 
us in every path of glory, we feel our eye turn from the career of 
war and ambition, and involuntarily rest upon those who have 
displayed the great truths of religion, who have investigated the 
laws of social welfare, or extended the sphere of human know- 
ledge. These are honors, we feel, which have been gained without 
a crime, and which can be enjoyed without remorse. They are 
honors also which can never die — which can shed lustre even upon 
the humblest head — and to which the young of every succeeding 
age will look up, as their brightest incentives to the pursuit of vir- 
tuous fame. 



ON THE USE AND ABUSE OF AMUSEMENTS. 

It were unjust and ungrateful to conceive that the amusements 
of life are altogether forbid by its beneficent Author. They serve, 
on the contrary, important purposes in the economy of human 
life, and are destined to produce important effects both upon our 
happiness and character. They are, in the first place, in the 
language of the Psalmist, ^^ the wells of the desert ;'' the kind 
resting-places in which toil may relax, in which the weary spirit 



400 ALISON. [VICTORIA 

may recover its tone, and where the desponding mind may resume 
its strength and its hopes. 

It is not, therefore, the use of the innocent amusements of life 
which is dangerous, but the abuse of them ; it is not when they 
are occasionally, but when they are constantly pursued ; when the 
love of amusement degenerates into a passion, and when, from 
being an occasional indulgence, it becomes an habitual desire. 
What the consequences of this inordinate love of amusement are, 
I shall now endeavor very briefly to show you. 

1. It tends to degrade all the powers of the understanding. 
It is the eternal law of nature, that truth and wisdom are the off- 
spring of labor, of vigor, and perseverance in every worthy object 
of pursuit. The eminent stations of fame, accordingly, and the 
distinguished honors of knowledge, have, in every age, been the 
reward only of such early attainments, of that cherished elevation 
of mind which pursues only magnificent ends, and of that heroic 
fortitude which, whether in action or in speculation, pursues them 
by the means of undeviating exertion. 

For the production of such a character, no discipline can be so 
unfit as that of the habitual love of amusement. It kindles not 
the eye of ambition, it bids the heart beat with no throb of gene- 
rous admiration, it lets the soul be calm, while all the rest of our 
fellows are passing us in the road of virtue or of science. Satis- 
fied with humble and momentary enjoyment, it aspires to no 
honor, no praise, no pre-eminence, and, contented with the idle 
gratification of the present hour, forgets alike what man has done 
and what man was born to do. 

If such be the character of the youthful mind, if it be with such 
aims and such ambition that its natural elevation can be satisfied, 
am I to ask you what must be the appearances of riper years ? — 
what the effect of such habits of thought upon the understanding 
of manhood ? Alas ! a greater instructor, the mighty instructor, 
experience, may show you in every rank of life what these effects 
are. It will show you men born with every capacity, and whose 
first years glowed with every honorable ambition, whom no vice 
even now degrades, and to whom no actual guilt is affixed, who 
yet live in the eye of the world only as the objects of pity or of 
scorn — who, in the idle career of habitual amusement, have dissi- 
pated all their powers and lost all their ambition — and who exist 
now for no purpose but to be the sad memorials of ignoble taste 
and degraded understanding. 

2. The inordinate love of pleasure is, in the second place, 
equally hostile to the moral character. If the feeble and passive 
disposition of mind which it produces be unfavorable to the exer- 



1837.] ALISON. 401 

tions of the understanding, it is, in the same measure, as unfavor- 
able to the best employments of the heart. The great duties of 
life, the duties for which every man and woman is born, demand, 
in all situations, the mind of labor and perseverance. From the 
first hour of existence to the last — from the cradle of the infant, 
beside which the mother watches with unslumbering eye, to the 
grave of the aged, where the son pours his last tears upon the 
bier of his father — in all that intermediate time, every day calls 
for exertion and activity, and the moral honors of our being can 
only be won by the steadfast magnanimity of pious duty. 

Alas ! experience has here also decided ; it tells you that the 
mind which exists only for pleasure, cannot exist for duty ; it tells 
you that the feeble and selfish spirit of amusement gradually cor- 
rodes all the benevolent emotions of the heart, and withers the 
most sacred ties of domestic afi'ection ; and it points its awful 
finger to the examples of those, alas ! of both sexes, whom the 
unrestrained love of idle pleasure first led to error and folly, and 
whom, with sure but fatal progress, it has since conducted to be 
the objects of secret shame and public infamy. 

3. In the last place, this unmanly disposition is equally fatal 
to happiness as to virtue. To the wise and virtuous, to those who 
use the pleasures of life only as a temporary relaxation, as a rest- 
ing-place to animate them on the great journey on which they are 
travelling, the hours of amusement bring real pleasure ; to them 
the well of joy is ever full, while to those who linger by its side, 
its waters are soon dried and exhausted. 

I speak not now of those bitter waters which must mingle them- 
selves with the well of unhallowed pleasure, of the secret re- 
proaches of accusing conscience, of the sad sense of shame and 
dishonor, and of that degraded spirit which must bend itself 
beneath the scorn of the world ; I speak only of the simple and 
natural efi'ect of unwise indulgence, that it renders the mind cal- 
lous to enjoyment, and that, even though the "fountain were full 
of water," the feverish lip is incapable of satiating its thirst. 
Alas ! here, too, we may see the examples of human folly. We 
may see around us everywhere the fatal effects of unrestrained 
pleasure ; the young sickening in the midst of every pure and 
genuine enjoyment; the mature hastening, with hopeless step, to 
fill up the hours of a vitiated being ; and, what is still more 
wretched, the hoary head wandering in the way of folly, and, 
with an unhallowed dotage, returning again to the trifles and the 
amusements of childhood. 

Such, then, my young friends, are the natural and experienced 
consequences of the inordinate love even of innocent amusement, 
35 



402 MACLEAN. [victoria 

and such the intellectual and moral degradation to which the paths 
of pleasure conduct. Let me entreat you to pause ere you begin 
your course, ere those habits are acquired which may never again 
be subdued, and ere ye permit the charms of pleasure to wind 
around your soul their fascinating powers. 

Think, with the elevation and generosity of your age, whether 
this is the course that leads to honor or to fame ; whether it was 
in this discipline that they were exercised who, in every age, 
have blessed or have enlightened the world, whose shades are 
present to your midnight thoughts, and whose names you cannot 
pronounce without the tear of gratitude or admiration. 

Think, still more, whether it was to the ends of unmanly plea- 
sure that you were dedicated, when the solemn service of religion 
first enrolled you in the number of the faithful, and when the ardent 
tears of your parents mingled with the waters of your baptism. 
If they live, is it in such paths that their anxious eyes delight to 
see you tread? If they are no more, is it on such scenes that 
they can bend their venerated heads from heaven, and rejoice in 
the course of their children ? 



LiETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN, 1802—1838. 

L.^TixiA Elizabeth Landon,' one of the most eminent among the female 
poets of our age, was born in London on the 14th of August, 1802. Her 
father dying when she was very young, and her mother being left with a 
large family and but little for their support, Lastitia, whose talent for poetry 
was early manifested, devoted her youthful enthusiasm to literary compo- 
sition, the fruits of which were applied to the maintenance and advancement 
of her family. Her first productions were brought forward about the year 
1822, in the pages of the " Literary Gazette," to which she continued for 
many years a frequent contributor, and to which she was mainly indebted 
for her reputation. -She also contributed largely to many other periodicals, 
and to nearly all the annuals, of some of which she wrote all the poetry, 
as of "Fisher's Drawing-room Scrap-Book," the " Flowers of Loveliness," 
and the " Bijou Almanac." This almost ceaseless composition necessa- 
rily precluded the thought, study, and cultivation essential to the produc- 
tion of poetry of the highest order. "Hence, with all their fancy and 
feeling, her principal works— the ' Improvisatrice,' the 'Troubadour,' the 
' Golden Violet,' the ' Golden Bracelet,' and the ' Vow of the Peacock' — 

' Better known to the literary world by the signature L. E. L. 



1837.] MACLEAN. 403 

bear a strong family likeness to each other in their recurrence to the same 
sources of allusion, and the same veins of imagery — in the conventional 
rather than natural coloring of their descriptions, and in the excessive 
though not unmusical carelessness of their versification. In spite, how- 
ever, of the ceaseless strain upon her powers, and the ceaseless distractions 
of a London life. Miss Landon accomplished much for her own mind in the 
progress of its career ; she had reached a deeper earnestness of thought, 
had added largely to the stores of her knowledge, and done much towards 
the polishing and perfecting of her verse." 

Miss Landon was married on the 7th of June, 1838, to George Maclean, 
Esq., Governor of Cape Coast Castle, South Africa, and soon after left 
England for her new abode. Letters were received from her by her friends 
in England, telling them of her employments and her happiness; but these 
were soon followed by news of her death. On the 15th of October, of the 
same year, she was found dead on the floor of her chamber, with an empty 
phial in her hand, which had contained prussic acid. She had been in the 
habit of using this as a remedy for spasmodic afiections, and had undoubt- 
edly taken an overdose. The stories that were circulated about her having 
poisoned herself were doubtless cruel slanders, as a letter to a friend, writ- 
ten on the morning of her death, breathing a spirit of content and happiness, 
was found upon her table. 

Of Mrs. Maclean's genius, there can be but one opinion. "She had 
great intellectual power, a highly sensitive and ardent imagination, an 
intense fervor of passionate emotion, and almost unequalled eloquence and 
fluency. Of mere art she displayed but little. Her style is irregular and 
careless, but there is genius in every line she has written. It is, however 
to be regretted that she too often took sad and melancholy views of life 
There is a morbid feeling in much of her poetry that throws over it a mis 
anthropic cast, and which gave some coloring to the stories that were cir 
culated about her death." The following are some of her choicest pieces 
that are the most free from such sentiments : — 



SUCCESS ALONE SEEN. 

Few know of life's beginnings — men behold 
The goal achieved; — the warrior, when his sword 
Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun; 
The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm ; 
The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice, 
And mould opinion, on his gifted tongue : 
They count not life's first steps, and never think 
Upon the many miserable hours 
When hope deferr'd was sickness to the heart. 
They reckon not the battle and the march, 
The long privations of a wasted youth ; 
They never see the banner till unfurl'd. 
What are to them the solitary nights 



404 MACLEAN. [VICTORIA 

Passed pale and anxious by the sickly lamp, 

Till the young poet wins the world at last 

To listen to the music long his own? 

The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind 

That makes their destiny; but they do not trace 

Its struggle, or its long expectancy. 

Hard are life's early steps; and, but that youth 

Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope, 

Men would behold its threshold, and despair. 



THE LITTLE SHROUD. 

She put him on a snow-white shroud, 

A chaplet on his head; 
And gathered early primroses 

To scatter o'er the dead. 

She laid him in his little grave — 

'Twas hard to lay him there, 
When spring was putting forth its flowers, 

And everything was fair. 

She had lost many children — now 

The last of them was gone ; 
And day and night she sat and wept 

Beside the funeral stone. 

One midnight, while her constant tears 

Were falling with the dew. 
She heard a voice, and lo ! her child 

Stood by her weeping too! 

His shroud was damp, his face was white ; 

He said — " I cannot sleep ; 
Your tears have made my shroud so wet, 

O, mother, do not weep!" 

O, love is strong! — the mother's heart 

Was filled with tender fears; 
O, love is strong! — and for her child 

Her grief restrained its tears. 

One eve a light shone round her bed, 
And there she saw him stand — 

Her infant in his little shroud, 
A taper in his hand. 

" Lo ! mother, see my shroud is dry. 

And I can sleep once more !" 
And beautiful the parting smile 

The little infant wore. 

And down within the silent grave 
He laid his weary head : 



Ig37.] MACLEAN. 405 

And soon the early violets 
Grew o'er his grassy bed. 

The mother went her household ways — 

Again she knelt in prayer, 
And only asked of Heaven its aid 

Her heavy lot to bear. 



THE WIDOW S MITE. 

It is the fruit of waking hours 

When others are asleep ; 
When, moaning round the low -thatched roof, 

The winds of winter creep. 

It is the fruit of summer days 

Passed in a gloomy room, 
When others are abroad to taste 

The pleasant morning bloom. 

'Tis given from a scanty store, 

And missed while it is given ; 
'Tis given — for the claims of earth 

Are less than those of heaven. 

Few, save the poor, feel for the poor ; 

The rich know not how hard 
It is to be of needful food 

And needful rest debarred. 

Their paths are paths of plenteousness: 

They sleep on silk and down. 
And never think how heavily 

The weary head lies down. 

They know not of the scanty meal. 

With small pale faces round ; 
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth. 

When snow is on the ground. 

They never by their window sit, 

And see the gay pass by, 
Yet take their weary^^vork again. 

Though with a mournful eye. 

The rich, they give— they miss it not— 

A blessing cannot be 
Like that which rests, thou widowed one. 

Upon tby gift and thee ! 

35* 



40G MACLEAN. [VICTORIA 



TIME ARRESTING THE CAREER OP PLEASURE. 

Stay thee on thy wild career, 
Other sounds than mirth's are near: 
Spread not those white arms in air ; 
Fling those roses from thy hair; 
Stop awhile those glancing feet; 
Still thy golden cymbals' beat ; 
Ring not thus thy joyous laugh; 
Cease that purple cup to quaflf; 
Hear my voice of warning, hear — 
Stay thee on thy wild career ! 

Youth's sweet bloom is round thee now ; 

Roses laugh upon thy brow ; 

Radiant are thy starry eyes ; 

Spring is in the crimson dyes 

O'er which thy dimpled smile is wreathing ; 

Incense on thy lip is breathing; 

Light and Love are round thy soul — 

But thunder-peals o'er June-skies roll ; 

Even now the storm is near — 

Then stay thee on thy mad career ! 

Raise thine eyes to yonder sky. 
There is writ thy destiny ! 
Clouds have veiled the new moonlight ; 
Stars have fallen from their height ; 
These are emblems of the fate 
That waits thee — dark and desolate ! 
All morn's lights are now thine own, 
Soon their glories will be gone ; 
What remains when they depart? 
Faded hope, and withered heart: 
Like a flower with no perfume 
To keep a memory of its bloom! 

Look upon that hour-marked round, 
Listen to that fateful sound ; 
There my silent hand is stealing, 
My more silent course revealing ; 
Wild, devoted Pleasure, hear — 
Stay thee on thy mad career! 



ERATO. 



Gentlest one, I bow to thee, 
Rose-lipped queen of poesy, 



Lovi 



1837.] MACLEAN. 407 

Sweet Erato, thou whose chords 

Waken but for love-touched words! 

Never other crown be mine 

Than a flower-linked wreath of thine; 

Green leaves of the laurel tree 

Are for bards of high degree; 

Better rose or violet suit 

With thy votary's softer lute. 

Not thine those proud lines that tell 

How kings ruled, or heroes fell ; 

But that low and honey tone 

So peculiarly Love's ovv^n ; 

Music such as the night breeze 

Wakens from the willow trees ; 

Such as murmurs from the shell, 

Wave-kissed in some ocean cell; 

Tales sweet as the breath of flowers. 

Such as in the twilight hours 

The young Bard breathes; and also thine 

Those old memories divine, 

Fables Grecian poets sung 

When on Beauty's lips they hung, 

Till the essenced song became 

Like that kiss, half dew, half flame. 

Thine each frail and lovely thing, 

The first blossoms of the spring: 

Violets, ere the sunny ray 

Drinks their fragrant life away; 

Roses, ere their crimson breast 

Throws aside its green moss vest; 

Young hearts, or ere toil, or care^ 

Or gold, has left a world-stain there. 

Thine, too, other gifts above, 

Every sign and shape of love — 

Its first smile, and its first sigh, 

Its hope, its despondency. 

Its joy, its sorrow — all belong 

To thy dear delicious song. 

Fair Erato, vowed to thee, 

If a lute like mine may be 

Offered at thy myrtle shrine, 

Lute and heart and song are thine. 

Broken be my treasured lute, 

Be its every number mute. 

Ere a single chord should waken, 

If by thee or Love forsaken. 

Gentlest one, I bow to thee, 

Rose-lipped queen of poesy ! 



408 MACLEAN. [VICTORIA 



THE POLAR STAR.^ 

A star has left the kindling sky — 

A lovely northern light ; 
How niany planets are on high, 

But that has left the night. 

I miss its bright familiar face, 

It was a friend to me ; 
Associate with my native place, 

And those beyond the sea. 

It rose upon our English sky, 

Shone o'er our English land, 
And brought back many a loving eye. 

And many a gentle hand. 

It seemed to answer to my thought, 

It called the past to mind, 
And with its welcome presence brought 

All I had left behind. 

The voyage it lights no longer, ends 

Soon on a foreign shore ; 
How can I but recall the friends 

That I may see no more ? 

Fresh from the pain it was to part — 

How could I bear the pain ? 
Yet strong the omen in my heart 

That says — We meet again. 

Meet with a deeper, dearer love ; 

For absence shows the worth 
Of all from which we then remove, 

Friends, home, and native earth. 

Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes 

Still turned the first on thee, 
Till I have felt a sad surprise 

That none looked up with me. 

But thou hast sunk upon the wave. 

Thy radiant place unknown ; 
I seem to stand beside a grave, 

And stand by it alone. 

Farewell ! ah, would to me were given 

A power upon thy light! 
What words upon our English heaven 

Thy loving rays should write ! 

* Alluding to the North Star, which, in her voyage to Africa, she had nightly 
watched till it sank below the horizon. These were the last verses she ever 
wrote. 



1837.] MACLEAN. 409 

Kind messages of love and hope 

Upon thy rays should be ; 
Thy shining orbit should have scope 

Scarcely enough for me. 

O, fancy vain, as it is fond. 

And little needed too; 
My friends ! I need not look beyond 

My heart to look for you. 



HER LAST LETTER. 

Cape Coast Castle, Octoher 15, 1838, 

My DEAREST Marie : I cannot but write to you a brief account 
how I enact the part of a feminine Robinson Crusoe. I must 
saj; in itself; the place is infinitely superior to all I ever dreamed 
of. The castle is a fine building — the rooms excellent. I do not 
suffer from heat; insects there are few or none, and I am in ex- 
cellent health. The solitude, except an occasional dinner, is ab- 
solute; from seven in the morning till seven, when we dine, I 
never see Mr. Maclean, and rarely any one else. We were wel- 
comed by a series of dinners, which I am glad are over, for it is 
very awkward to be the only lady. Still, the great kindness with 
which I have been treated, and the very pleasant manners of many 
of the gentlemen, make me feel it as little as possible. Last week 
we had a visit from Captain Castle, of the Pylades. His story is 
very melancholy. He was married, six months before he left 
England, to one of the beautiful Miss Hills, Sir John HilFs daugh- 
ter, and she died just as he received orders to return home. We 
also had a visit from Colonel Bosch, the Dutch governor, a most 
gentlemanlike man. I have not yet felt the want of society the 
least : I do not wish to form new friends, and never does a day 
pass without thinking most affectionately of my old ones. On 
three sides we are surrounded by the sea. I like the perpetual 
dash on the rocks; one wave comes up after another, and is for- 
ever dashed in pieces, like human hopes, that can only swell to be 
disappointed ; as we advance, up springs the shining froth of love 
or hope, ^^a moment white and gone forever.^' The land-view, 
with its cocoa and palm-trees, is very striking; it is like a scene 
in the Arahian Nights. Of a night, the beauty is very remark- 
able : the sea is of a silvery purple, and the moon deserves all that 
has been said in her favor. I have only once been out of the fort 
by daylight, and then was delighted. The salt-lakes were first 
dyed a deep crimson by the setting sun, and as we returned they 



410 CARPENTER. [VICTORIA 

seemed a faint violet in the twilight, just broken by a thousand 
stars, while before us was the red beacon light. The chance of 
sending this letter is a very sudden one, or I should have ventured 
to write to General Fagen, to whom I beg the very kindest regards. 
Dearest, do not forget me. Pray write to me, "Mrs. G-eorge 
Maclean, Cape Coast Castle; care of Messrs. Forster and Smith, 
5, New City Chambers, Bishopsgate-street.''' Write about your- 
self; nothing else half so much interests 
Your affectionate 

L. E. Maclean. 



LANT CARPENTER, 1781—1840. 

Of the early life of this most estimable minister, I can find no account. 
He completed his professional studies at the University of Glasgow, where 
he acquitted himself with so much credit that the degree of LL.D. was 
conferred upon him at an unusually early period of his life. After leaving 
Glasgow, he was for a time librarian of the Liverpool Athenaeum ; but he 
soon settled as a minister over a congregation in Exeter, and after being 
there some years, he removed to Bristol, and took charge of the Unitarian 
Church there, in which connection he continued till his death, which took 
place on the 5th of May, 1840. 

Dr. Carpenter was distinguished by the possession of great benevolence 
and warm piety. He entered with a peculiar warmth into everything 
which he undertook, and his labors were always in the line of what is 
favorable to the best interests of man. He was held in affectionate 
esteem by his congregation, and was regarded with respect by all who 
knew him. Besides his professional duties as a minister, he was for many 
years at the head of a school which he established, and was much employed 
in delivering lectures on various subjects in different towns, and in con- 
stantly writing for the press. Besides a number of sermons and works 
connected with the Unitarian controversy, he published " An Introduction 
to the Geography of the New Testament," "Plain Rules and Catalogue 
of a Library for Young Persons," " Dissertations on the Duration of our 
Saviour's Ministry, and the Chronological Arrangement of the Gospel 
Records." But the work by which he is most known — and a most ad- 
mirable work it is — is that entitled " Principles of Education, Intellectual, 
Moral, and Physical."* He also wrote, in conjunction with the Rev. W. 

• I knowof no work more excellent or complete on the subject of education, 
in all its parts, than this. It is a monument to the sound, practical, good 
sense, the enlarged views, the erudition, and the piety of the author. 



1837.] CARPENTER. 411 

Shepherd and the Rev. J. Joyce, a work entitled, " Systematic Education, 
or Elementary Instruction in the Various Departments of Literature and 
Science." From this I have selected the following most excellent remarks 
upon 



THE REGULATION OF THE SENSIBLE PLEASURES. 

Suppose that any one endeavored to gratify the impulse of his 
bodily appetites, without any restraint from the virtues of tem- 
perance and chastity — he would soon destroy his bodily faculties, 
thus rendering the objects of the sensible pleasures useless, and 
he would precipitate himself into pain, diseases, and death. 
'^ This is a plain matter of observation, verified every day by the 
sad example of loathsome, tortured wretches, that occur, which 
way soever we turn our eyes, in the streets, in private families, 
in hospitals, in palaces. ^^ Positive misery, and the loss even of 
sensible pleasure, are too inseparably connected with intemperance 
and every kind of impurity, to leave room for doubt, even to the 
most sceptical. The sensual appetites must, therefore, be regu- 
lated by, and made subservient to, some other part of our natures ; 
otherwise we shall miss even the sensible pleasure which we might 
have enjoyed, and shall fall into the opposite pains, which are, in 
general, far greater and more exquisite than the sensible pleasures. 

The same conclusion also follows from the fact that inordinate 
indulgence in sensual gratification destroys the mental faculties, 
exposes to external inconveniences and pains, is totally inconsist- 
ent with the duties and pleasures of benevolence and piety, and 
is all along attended with the secret reproaches of the moral 
sense, and the horrors of a guilty mind. Such is the constitution 
of our frame, that the formation of mental feelings and affections 
cannot be altogether prevented ; but an inordinate pursuit of 
sensible pleasures converts the mental affections into a source of 
pain, and impairs and cuts off the intellectual pleasures. 

Upon the lowest principles of self-interest , therefore, the plea- 
sures of sensation ought not to be made the primary pursuit of 
life. Even a mere prudential regard to our own present happi- 
ness requires that they should be submitted to the precepts of 
benevolence, piety, and the moral sense. 

By this steady adherence to moderation, we are no losers even 
with respect to sensible pleasures themselves; for by these means 
our senses and bodily powers are preserved in their best state, 
and as long as is consistent with the necessary decay of the body ; 
and this moderation, and its beneficial consequences, directly tend 



412 CARPENTER. [VICTORIA 

to inspire the mind with perpetual serenity, cheerfulness, and 
good- will, and with gratitude to the Giver of all good. 

We are, then, great gainers, on the whole, by religious mode- 
ration as to sensible pleasure ; still more so as to the sensible pains 
and sufferings which the intemperate bring on themselves. These 
are of the most exquisite kind, and often of long duration, espe- 
cially when they give intervals of respite ; they impair the bodily 
and mental powers, so as to render most other enjoyments insipid 
and imperfect ; they dispose to peevishness, passion, and mur- 
muring against Providence ; and they are attended with the pangs 
of a guilty mind. 

On the whole, the proper method of avoiding the sensible 
pains, whether the result of excess, or such as occur in the daily 
discharge of the duties of life, and of obtaining the sensible plea- 
sures in their best and most lasting state, is not to aim at either 
directly, but in everything to be guided by the dictates of benevo- 
lence, piety, and the moral sense. 

^'The only rule with respect to our diet,'' says Dr. Priestley, 
in his '' Institutes,'' " is to prefer those kinds and that quantity of 
food which most conduce to the health and vigor of our bodies. 
Whatever in eating or drinking is inconsistent with, and obstructs 
this end, is wrong, and should carefully be avoided ; and every 
man's own experience, assisted with a little information from 
others, will be sufficient to inform him what is nearly the best 
for himself in both these respects, so that no person is likely to 
injure himself through mere mistake." 

It is sufficiently obvious that it is the benevolent affections 
which give the chief value and highest interest to the sensible 
pleasures arising from the intercourse of the sexes; and it also 
appears that these pleasures were designed by the great Author 
of our frame to be one chief means of transferring our affection 
and concern from ourselves to others. If, therefore, this great 
source of benevolence be corrupted or perverted, the social affec- 
tions depending on it will also be perverted, and degenerate into 
selfishness or malevolence. It is more or less corrupted or per- 
verted by every indulgence of the passions out of those limits 
which reason and sound and comprehensive experience prescribe, 
equally with the revealed laws of Grod, as best promoting the 
great ends for which they were implanted in our frame. 

These limits are fixed by the marriage institutions, which 
philosophy, as well as religion, cannot fail to acknowledge as of 
the utmost importance to the happiness and improvement of man- 
kind. The direct tendency of these institutions is to promote the 
•comfort and moral elevation of that sex to whom Providence has, 



1837.] CARPENTER. 413 

in a peculiar degree, intrusted the physical care of infancy and 
early childhood, and the commencement of the habits on which 
the welfare of the next race depends ; to whom is committed the 
delightful task of first developing the powers of the understanding, 
and cultivating and refining the affections. Independently of this 
more indirect influence, they essentially aid in the proper care and 
the mental and moral culture of the rising generation. They 
supply a constant and invaluable stimulus for the activity and 
abilities of the parents. They call into exercise, and cherish in 
the child, those charities which are the root of general benevo- 
lence, and bear a close relation to the affections of piety. And 
the moral union which they produce between those who form the 
conjugal relation has a direct and -efficacious tendency to promote 
in them the great ends of life, as well as to refine and dignify its 
present satisfactions and endearments. 

To produce the best effects, this union must be inviolable and 
for life; and it should ever be attended with mutual esteem and 
tenderness, with mutual deference, forbearance, confidence, aid, 
and sympathy. 

The laws of our frame, the plain dictates of experience and 
observation, and the express and authoritative precepts of the 
Scriptures, all concur in pointing to steady self-control as the 
safest, the wisest, and the happiest course, and in directing to 
avoid, with strict caution, every violation of purity and chastity. 
Ogden well observes, on this subject, "Irregularity has naturally 
no limits; one excess draws on another;" '^ the most easy, there- 
fore, as well as the most excellent way of being virtuous, is to be 
so entirely." The laws of the Gospel enjoin that we avoid the 
indulgence even of impure desires. It is a strict, but it is also a 
benevolent morality. It checks the evil where it is easiest, where 
almost alone it is possible effectually to check it, at the source. 

Leaving out of view the mischievous and commonly irremedi- 
able effects of impurity of every kind on the health of the bodily 
system, it is a weighty consideration that licentiousness corrupts 
and depraves the mind and moral character more than any single 
species of vice whatsoever. That ready perception of guilt, that 
prompt and decisive resolution against it, which forms one grand 
feature in a virtuous character, is seldom found in persons ad- 
dicted to these indulgences. They prepare an easy admission for 
every sin that seeks it: they are, in low life, usually the first 
stage in men's progress to the most desperate wickedness ; and, 
in high life, to that lamented dissoluteness of principle which 
manifests itself in a profligacy of public conduct, and a contempt 
of the obligations of religion and moral probity. Add to this, 
3G 



414 CARPENTER. [VICTORIA 

ft 
that habits of libertinism incapacitate and indispose the mind for 
all intellectual, moral, and religious pleasures, which is a great 
loss to ^ny man's happiness. 

The moral instructor, who is anxious for the welfare of the 
young, must feel solicitous to induce them to shun the beginning 
of evils so destructive to their peace and welfare; and he cannot 
fail to urge them to avoid every kind of indecent language. The 
advice of the heathen moralist cannot be too forcibly recommended 
or too cautiously observed.^ The Scripture precepts are express 
on this point; they require us to avoid all " corrupt communica- 
tion ;" and they point to a future account of our words, as well 
as of our actions. 

In innumerable instances, the first step to ruin has been in- 
dulging in impure conversation. 

To give the dictates of reason, religion, and conscience their 
due influence, the disposition to self-restraint should be early and 
steadily cherished by those who have the care of the young ; and 
after they arrive at that period in which the passions too often 
acquire the ascendency, it should be carefully exercised by them- 
selves. Next to the direct culture and exercise of religious prin- 
ciple, nothing can be more effectual than a full and judicious 
employment of their time in the various engagements of their 
station, in the occupations to which benevolence prompts, in the 
acquisition of useful knowledge, and in cheerful and active, but 
innocent recreation. If habits are formed of indolence, and of 
unrestrained indulgence in sleep, in diet, and in mere amusement, 
it is in vain to look for that self-control which was declared to be 
^' wisdom's root,'' by one who, through the want of it, blighted 
his fairest prospects and sunk into an untimely grave. 

If we are asked by any of our young readers how they may 
pass through the present period of their lives with most of honor 
and of solid enjoyment^ and at the same time make the best pre- 
paration for future respectability, usefulness, and happiness, we 
should unhesitatingly answer — tliinh nothing cdlowahle, in word 
or action, tvhich you feel your conscience condemn, and of lohicJi 
you could not speah to a respected friend — cherish an habitual 
and operative sense of the Divine p)resence and your own account- 
ahleness, and remember that " he who despiseth small things shall 
fall by little and little.'^ 

» Nil dictu fccdum visuque hsec limiiia tangat, 
Intra quse puer est. 

Juv. Sat. xiv. 44. 
"Far from the walls where children dwell, 



Immodest sights, immodest words repel ; 
The place is sacred." 



1837.] IRELAND. 415 



JOHN IRELAND, 17G1— 1842. 

John Ireland, a distinguished dignitary in the English Church, was 
born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, on the 8th of September, 1761. He 
matriculated at Oxford, in 1780, and, after receiving various ecclesiastical 
preferments, he v^^as installed Dean of Westminster in 1816. In conjunc- 
tion with his friend, Mr. Canning, he was one of the principal writers who 
assisted Mr. GifTord in the early volumes of the " Quarterly Review," He 
was the author of a number of valuable theological works; but that by 
which he is most known is his work entitled " Paganism and Christi- 
anity Compared, in a course of lectures to the king's scholars at West- 
minster." It is a most learned and eloquent exposition of the sufferings of 
the early Christians, and of the comparative claims of Paganism and Chris- 
tianity upon their followers, both as respects " the life that now is, and 
that which is to come."' He left behind him numerous manuscripts, but 
(as his friend GifTord had done), he desired that they all should be de- 
stroyed. He lived a life of great usefulness and benevolence, was a most 
munificent patron of learning, a liberal encourager of religious and benevo- 
lent undertakings, and, by his will, he left about thirty thousand pounds to 
various universities and hospitals. He died on the 1st of September, at his 
Deanery, Westminster, universally lamented and beloved. 



SUFFERINGS OF THE EARLY CHRISTIANS. 

St. Paul has affirmed, concerning the godliness of which he was 
an inspired teacher, that it ^' is profitable to all things, having the 
promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.'^ His 
immediate intention was to refute an erroneous notion, whether as- 
cribed to certain heretics of the early ages, or more prospectively 
to the Romish Church, that the profession of the faith of Christ was 
incompatible with the usual connections and supports of common 
life. But his declaration extends beyond the controversy itself, 
and asserts, in universal terms, the happy condition of believers 
under the Gospel. The ^^ bodily exercises,'^ the unbidden auste- 
rities and mortifications, against which he argues, have little in- 
fluence in promoting the welfare of man — but true Christianity 
comprehends all good. It unites the blessings of this world and 
the next. In the present life it allows to us whatever can be 
desired with innocence, or used with thanksgiving to Grod ; and in 

' I can speak of this book with the afFection of an early love, for I read it, 
in my senior year at college, with great pleasure as well as profit. 



41G IRELAND. [VICTORIA 

the life to' come, it offers that transcendent happiness which is 
promised, in a more eminent manner, through Jesus Christ. 

It is impossible not to be struck with admiration, when we con- 
sider this assertion, and compare it with the outward circumstances 
of the Christian church in the age in which the Apostle wrote. 
The Saviour had prepared the minds of his disciples for the trials 
which awaited them in the execution of their sacred commission — 
"Behold I send you forth as lambs among wolves;" and those 
who conspire to hinder the propagation of your doctrine " will 
deliver you up to the councils, and they will scourge you in their 
synagogues. Ye shall be brought before governors and kings for 
my sake, for a testimony against them and the Gentiles ; and ye 
shall be hated of all men for my sake." 

These denunciations were dreadfully verified. Disastrous, in- 
deed, was the condition of the Gospel, not only while it was con- 
fined within the borders of Judea and Samaria, but after it was 
announced to the world at large. The propagators of the faith 
had to make the melancholy confession, that distresses of every 
kind were prepared for them by the ready malice of their enemies. 
They were openly punished, and privately defamed. They suffered 
both " hunger and thirst, were naked and buffeted, and had no 
certain dwelling-place." For himself, in particular, St. Paul states 
his more abundant labors, his frequent imprisonments, his various 
and unceasing perils by sea and land, from his own countrymen 
and from the heathen, and the "bonds and afflictions which 
awaited him in every city." Yet amid circumstances so unusually 
discouraging arose the steady assertion of the apostle ; and the 
Gospel, thus persecuted and apparently forlorn, was still declared 
to have the promise of the life that now is, as well as of that 
which is to come ! 

Let us extend this view beyond the limits of the apostolic age, 
and follow the Gospel in its afflictions and its joys, its persecu- 
tions and its determined triumphs. The continued sufferings of 
the propagators of the faith are abundantly proved in the descrip- 
tions which other writers have given us of the hostile conduct of 
the Gentiles and Jews. In the early defences of Christianity, 
nothing is more frequent than the complaint that the mere con- 
fession of the faith was deemed sufficient ground of condemnation 
by the heathen tribunals. 

Justin Martyr, in his first apology, relates the cases of those 
who were summarily punished on this account, and the conversa- 
tions which were held concerning them in the Roman courts of 
justice. Ptolemseus, a convert, had been seized and thrown into 
prison, upon information that he was a Christian. When he was 



1837.] IRELAND. 417 

brought before Urbicius, the prgefect of the city, the only question 
asked of him was^ whether he professed the faith of Christ ? This 
being acknowledged^ he was instantly ordered to be led away to 
death. Among those who stood by, was Lucius, another convert, 
who, in the boldness of innocence, asked the pr^efect on what 
grounds he condemned a man proved guilty of no crime. ^^ Art 
thou also a Christian ?'' demanded Urbicius. This was not denied ; 
and the same punishment was adjudged to both. 

While these advocates of the faith justly demand that their 
lives and characters be made the subjects of inquiry, before sen- 
tence is passed upon them, they boldly declare that they refuse 
not to die, if wickedness be proved against them; and they com- 
plain, with peculiar force of argument to a Roman ear, that they 
have not the usual lot of subjects, for whose prosperity the empire 
professed a common and undiscriminating care. " If we are guilty 
of any wickedness (says Athenagoras in his address to the Empe- 
rors M. Aurelius and Commodus), we do not refuse to be pun- 
ished ; nay, we call for the worst of punishment. But if our only 
guilt be the name of Christians, it is your duty to protect us from 
the injuries which we suffer.'^ 

Justin Martyr indulges the same complaint in his second apolo- 
gy. " Other men acknowledge what gods they will, and you hinder 
them not.'' Then, alluding to the Egyptian worship, always deem- 
ed the opprobrium of Paganism, and reprobating the senseless, 
trifling, and disgusting objects of it, he points out the differences 
of opinion concerning the worshippers themselves. " Yet, even to 
these sects, bigoted to their several deities, and hostile to each 
other on their account, you, Romans, show an equal clemency, 
and allow their discordant practices. To Christians alone you 
object that they worship not the same gods with yourselves; and 
you devote us to death, because we do not adore dead men, and 
propitiate them by sacrifices, and garlands placed upon their 
altars.'' 

The apology^of Tertullian is a mixture of indignation, strong 
reasoning, and irony. He is generally serious, though sometimes 
sportive ; and while he repels the calumnies of the enemies of the 
faith, he can indulge a vein of pleasantry. 

He declares his belief with much force and dignity. " Mangled 
by your cruelty, and covered with our own blood, we still proclaim 
aloud — We worship God through Christ. Persist in your own 
opinion, and deem him a mere man. Yet through him God makes 
himself known; in him he will be worshipped. But rather ought 
ye to inquire, whether the divinity of Christ be not the true divi- 
nity, the knowledge of which leads the worshipper to all goodness, 

36* 



418 IRELAND. [VICTORIA 

and therefore compels him to reject the lying pretensions of your 
idols." Again^ he sportively compares the idols themselves with 
the mangled bodies of the Christians : " You place us upon 
a cross, or the stump of some tree ; and on a frame of the like 
shape you fashion your gods of clay. You lacerate our sides with 
hooks of iron ; with similar labor do you employ axes, and saws, 
and augers on your gods of wood. You throw us into the fire ; 
and in the fire you cast your gods of metal. Or perhaps you 
send us to the mines ; but from thence come your best divinities. 
We are, therefore, under the like circumstances with them ; and 
if divinity is produced by hewing and mangling, our tortures are 
our consecration, and we are fit objects of your worship." 



" THE LIFE THAT NOW IS'' PROMISED TO THE CHRISTIAN. 

Nor is the superiority of the Christian seen only in the better 
principles through which he bears the unavoidable evils of life. 
He has a present happiness surpassing that of other men. The 
Saviour had promised to the meek, that they " should possess the 
earth." This expression was meant to point out the advantages 
resulting from a Christian use of this world — the contentedness 
with which we receive what God sees to be necessary or conve- 
nient to our being, the happy freedom from those malignant and 
destructive passions which poison the enjoyments of other men, 
the mildness of temper with which we soothe every occurrence of 
life, and that lofty tranquillity concerning the objects of the world 
which is the blessed effect of our sincere reliance on the Divine 
providence. This, then, is the foundation on which St. Paul 
grounds his assertion that the Christian has the promise of " the 
life that now is." The laxity of morals which prevailed in an 
early part of the last century, occasioned a dispute which involved 
this question. To whom fell the largest share of the common 
enjoyments of life? — to the man of religious sobriety, or to the man 
of pleasure, the glutton, the drunkard, and the sensualist ? The 
better cause was defended against the false^ philosophy of the 
times by the acute and pious Bishop Berkeley, in a part of his 
Alciphron. His chief argument is against the strange notion of 
Mandeville and his followers, who represented private vices as 
public benefits; and he infers that, before they can be such, they 
must benefit the individuals who practise them. But this being 
false, the other cannot be true. Hence he satisfactorily demon- 
strates the superior advantages possessed by the man of temper- 



1837.] IRELAND. 419 

ance. His life is proved to bo generally longer than that of the 
reveller; his enjoyments are more perfect; and therefore his por- 
tion of the blessings of this world is larger, while the satisfaction 
which he draws from them is of a more exquisite nature, and more 
delightful to himself. 

Nothing, therefore, is withheld from the Christian; nothing 
but sin. Meanwhile, pleasures the most ample, the most satisfac- 
tory which human life can admit, are his portion and his recom- 
pense — the pleasures of innocence, of temperance, of thankfulness 
to God, who deprives us of nothing which does not also tend to 
deprive us of himself. The free use of this world is permitted to 
us, while God is the supreme object of our thoughts and affections; 
while we have that love towards the Author of our happiness which 
transcends the love of all other things, and while we so " pass 
through things temporal, as not to lose the things eternal.^' 

In all cases, then, it appears, that godliness has the promise of 
happiness. In the common progress of human affairs, amidst 
which we generally pass the longest part of life, the believer has 
an advantage over other men. He receives with gratitude the 
good which the opened hand of God pours upon him ; he uses it 
with religious sobriety ; and thus the effect of the blessing is in- 
creased, while the use itself is prolonged. Under the common 
evils of life, he experiences comforts and supports unknown to 
other men. His persuasion of a Providence teaches him that 
whatever befalls him, is according to the Divine will. In the 
hands of God are the " issues" of all things, because from him 
they had their beginning. He may "take away," because he 
hath first "given," whatever we possess. He may " kill," because 
he hath first "made alive." His name, therefore, is to be equally 
the subject of our " blessing," under evil and under good ; in the 
moment of death, as in the midst of life itself. And that which 
thus invigorates the Christian, is the happy influence of the spirit 
of God. Hence he draws those private supports and invisible con- 
solations which prevent him from sinking under the burden of 
evil. They silently and gradually raise his soul from its dejec- 
tion; they dispose him to religious tranquillity, and at length 
impress upon him that settled rest and godly satisfaction, against 
which the "changes and the chances of this mortal life" shall never 
more prevail. But, under the pressure of extraordinary dangers 
and distresses arising from the maintenance of the faith, the in- 
fluence of faith is still superior to the evils which it draws upon 
itself. The evidence of Christian hope rises as persecutions in- 
crease. The immediate evil may indeed be avoided by the viola- 
tion of conscience; but the believer prefers the suffering of the 



420 ARNOLD. [victoria 

body with the peace of the soul. His affliction, which is " but for 
a momcDt, is not to be compared with the glory which shall be re- 
vealed in him hereafter.^^ He, therefore, joyfully lays down this 
mortal life, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to 
eternal happiness through Jesus Christ. 



THOMAS ARNOLD, 1795—1842. 

Dr. Thomas Arnold was born at Cowes, Isle of Wight, on the 13th of 
June, 1795. He received his preparatory education at Winchester School, 
and went thence, in 1811, to Corpus Christi College, Oxford. In 1814, 
his name was placed in the first class in classical literature, and in the next 
year he was elected fellow of Oriel College, and he gained the chancellor's 
prize for the two university essays, Latin and English, for the years 1815 
and 1817. In December, 1818, he was ordained deacon, at Oxford. In 
1819, he settled at Laleham, where he remained for the next nine years, 
taking seven or eight young men as private pupils in preparation for the 
universities. In 1827, he was elected head master of the school at Rugby. 
On the death of Dr. Nares, in 1841, he was offered the Regius professor- 
ship of modern history at Oxford, which he accepted, without resigning 
his place at Rugby, and the very next year, 1842, on the 12th of June, he 
died, on the day that completed his 47th year. 

It is impossible to do justice to the intellectual, moral, and religious 
character of this eminently great and good man in the limits necessarily 
assigned to these biographical notices. No English scholar of the present 
century has exerted a wider or more happy influence on the literary and 
religious world. In whatever light we view him, either as a scholar, an 
historian, a schoolmaster, a theologian, or as a man, he commands our high- 
est respect and warmest admiration. 

As a scholar. Dr. Arnold was distinguished for his deep and varied 
learning, and for his classical attainments, which were extensive and accu- 
rate. He was particularly fond of Grecian literature, and his edition of 
" Thucydides" gave proof of his accurate Greek scholarship, and his dis- 
criminating taste as a critic. But what was better than all, he was a Christ- 
ian scholar, and aimed to make himself and his pupils look upon knowledge 
not as an end, but as a means to higher and more enlarged usefulness. 

As a historian, he shows in his own most instructive " Lectures on 
Modern History," in his "History of Rome," and of" The Later Roman 
Commonwealth," what history ought to be, and how it should be studied. 
His " History of Rome" is undoubtedly the best history in the language, 
and to its composition the author brought the very highest qualifications of 
learning and of religious principle. " He saw God in history, and felt that 



1837.] ARNOLD. 421 

righteousness exalts a nation, and that sin is not merely a reproach to a 
people, but that it introduces rottenness and decay into its very heart." 

It was as a schoolmaster, however, that Dr. Arnold was strikingly great. 
"Teaching was the business of his life, and in instruction his greatness 
was most conspicuous. His spirit was instinct with generous sympathy, 
which delights in contact with the freshness and ardor of youth." ^ When 
he entered Rugby School, it was at a very low ebb, but it soon rose rapidly 
in public estimation, and the success of its pupils at the universities was 
marked aijd striking. He was not only an admirable scholar and skilful 
instructor, but he had that enthusiastic love for literature, and of everything 
that tends to exalt and purify our nature, which seldom fails to inspire with 
the same ardor all minds that are susceptible of it. Yet his pupils were 
indebted to him for something far more valuable than learning, or the love 
of learning; for his constant, and, for the most part, successful endeavors 
to implant in their minds the noblest principles, the most just sentiments, 
not by precept only, but by that without which precepts are generally un- 
availing — example. 

As a theologian. Dr. Arnold was truly catholic in his views. He had 
little regard for systems of theology; but he went to the fountain head, and, 
in his interpretation and application of the Scriptures, he so signalized 
himself that, in the judgment of his friends, this was the sphere for which 
he was most highly fitted to shine with eminent usefulness. In theological 
controversy, he showed great ability and exerted great influence. He was 
a reformer in church and state, and to reform he consecrated his most 
earnest zeal. 

As a man, he was remarkable for the uniform sweetness, the patience, 
and the forbearing meekness of his disposition. It was his constant aim to 
bring his rehgious principles into the daily practice of life, not by the con- 
tinued introduction of religious phraseology, but by a single-hearted study 
to realize the Christian character. He was an ardent lover of truth, and 
when he found it, he uttered it with the utmost fearlessness. " He was an 
innate Christian ; the bad passions might almost be said to have been 
omitted in his constitution. But his truth and honesty were unflinchingly 
regardless of his own interest, or of temporary consequences." Such is 
an imperfect outline of the character of this great and good man.^ 

' Read an excellent article on Dr. Arnold in the 5tli vol. of the '' New Eng- 
lander," to w^hich I am indebted for a portion of this sketch. 

^ "He will strike those who study him more closely, as a complete charac- 
ter — complete in its union of moral and intellectual gifts, and in the steady 
growth and development of both ; for his greatness did not consist in the pre- 
eminence of any single quality, but in several remarkable powers, thoroughly 
leavened and pervaded by an ever-increasing moral nobleness. He was not 
one of those men who, beginning well, are stunted in mind and in heart at a 
certain age — often, perhaps, because their thoughts are at war with their feel- 
ings — because the latter are not" fresh and pure enough to give vigor and man- 
liness to the former. It was the very reverse of this with Arnold ; the same 
holy objects on which his affections were unceasingly fixed — the same great 
subjects of moral and intellectual interest — the same simple and innocent 
pleasures are seen, as it were, sensibly growing in almost every successive 
letter, from the first days at Laleham to the last at Rugby. Connected with, 



422 ARNOLD. [VICTORIA 

"Our readers must pass a day with Arnold. They will see of how 
homely and plain a thread, to all appearance, it was composed. Only, to 
make it more impressive, the day we will choose shall be his last. It dif- 
fers in itself in no respect from other days, except as it is more of a holiday, 
since it happens to be also the concluding day of the half-year. On the 
morrow he was to shake his wings for Westmoreland. The morning is 
taken up with an examination in ' Ranke's History of the Popes.' Then 
come the distribution of prizes, the taking leave of the boys who are going, 
and all the mechanical details of finishing for the holidays ; his usual walk 
and bath follow ; dinner next, where he talked with great pleasure to 
several guests of his early geological studies under Buckland, and of a 
recent visit to Naseby with Thomas Carlyle. An interval in the even- 
ing leaves room for an earnest conversation with an old pupil on some 
differences in their views of the Tractarian theology ; after which, the day 
rounds off" with an annual supper to some of the six(h-form boys. Arnold 
retired to bed, apparently in perfect health. But before laying down his 
head upon the pillow, from which he was never more to raise it, he put his 
seal upon this busy and cheerful day by an entry in his diary, which 
(reading it as we now read it) seems of prophetic import. Yet, in truth, 
these transitions had become so familiar to him that, in passing from what 
was most spiritual, he was hardly conscious of the change. He kept the 
communication between this world and the next so freely open — angels 
ascending and descending — that he blended the influences of both, of 
things temporal and things eternal, into one consistent whole: — 

" ^Saturday Evening, June 11. — The day after to-morrow is 
my birthday, if I am permitted to live to see it — my forty-seventh 
birthday since my birth. How large a portion of my life on 
earth is already passed ! And then — what is to follow this life ? 
How visibly my outward work seems contracting and softening 
away into the gentler employments of old age. In one sense, 
how nearly can I now say, ^^ Vixi 3'^ and I thank God that, as 
ftir as ambition is concerned, it is, I trust, fully mortified. I 
have no desire other than to step back from my present place in 
the world, and not to rise to a higher. Still there are works 

and, indeed, an instance of this completeness and consistency of character is 
the, concentration of his thoughts and interests on a few great moral subjects^ 
which, if it diminished his intellectual breadth, yet increased the intenseness 
of his moral and intellectual vision." 

Quarterly Review, vol. Ixxiv. p. 507. 
" The basis of Arnold's morale reminds us of all we knowof that of another 
celebrated schoolmaster (not very popular in his day, and no great favorite 
with high churchmen) ; we mean John Milton. There is the same purity and 
directness about them both ; the same predominance of the graver, not to say 
sterner, elements; the same confidence, vehemence, and elevation. They 
both so lived in their ' great Task-Master's eye,' as to verify Bacon's observa- 
tion in his < Essay on Atheism' — made themselves of kin to God in spirit, and 
raised their nature by means of a higher nature than their own." 

Edinburgh Revieiv, vol. Ixxxi. p. 203. 



1837.] ARNOLD. 423 

which, with God's permission, I would do before the night cometh, 
especially that great work, if I might be permitted to take part 
in it. But, above all, let me mind my own personal work, to 
keep myself pure, and zealous, and believing — laboring to do 
God's will, yet not anxious that it should be done by me rather 
than by others, if God disapproves of my doing it.' 

" What a midnight epitaph ! How ominous and how unconscious ! How 
tender and sublime ! He woke next morning, between five and six, in 
pain. It was angina pectoris. At eight o'clock he was dead !"' 



THE VALUE OF CLASSICAL EDUCATION. 

A reader unacquainted with the real nature of a classical educa- 
tion will be in danger of undervaluing it, Avhen he sees that so 
large a portion of time, at so important a period of human life, is 
devoted to the study of a few ancient writers, whose works seem 
to have no direct bearing on the studies and duties of our own 
generation. For instance, although some provision is undoubtedly 
made at Rugby for acquiring a knowledge of modern history, yet 
the history of Greece and Rome is more studied than that of 
France and England; and Homer and Virgil are certainly much 
more attended to than Shakspeare and Milton. This appears to 
many persons a great absurdity, while others, who are so far 
swayed by authority as to believe the system to be right, are yet 
unable to understand how it can be so. A journal of education 
may not be an unfit place for a few remarks on this subject. 

It may be freely confessed that the first origin of classical edu- 
cation aifords in itself no reasons for its being continued now. 
When Latin and Greek were almost the only written languages 
of civilized man, it is manifest that they must have furnished the 
subjects of all liberal education. The question, therefore, is 
wholly changed since the growth of a complete literature in other 
languages; since France, and Italy, and Germany, and J^ngland, 
have each produced their philosophers, their poets, and their 
historians, worthy to be placed on the same level with those of 
Greece and Rome. 

But, although there is not the same reason now which existed 
three or four centuries ago for the study of Greek and Roman 
literature, yet there is another no less substantial. Expel Greek 
and Latin from your schools, and you confine the views of the 

» " Edinburgh Review," vol. Ixxxi. p. 198. 



424 ARNOLD. [VICTORIA 

existing generation to themselves and their immediate ^deces- 
sors; you will cut off so many centuries of the world's experience, 
and place us in the same state as if the human race had first come 
into existence in the year 1500. For it is nothing to say that a 
few learned individuals might still study classical literature; the 
effect produced on the public mind would be no greater than that 
which has resulted from the labors of our oriental scholars ; it 
would not spread beyond themselves, and men in general, after 
a few generations, would know as little of Greece and Eome as 
they do actually of China and Hindostan. But such an ignorance 
would be incalculably more to be regretted. With the Asiatic 
mind we have no nearer connection and sympathy than is derived 
from our common humanity. But the mind of the Greek and of 
the Roman is, in all the essential points of its constitution, our 
own ; and not only so, but it is our mind developed to an extra- 
ordinary degree of perfection. Wide as is the difference between 
us with respect to those physical instruments which minister to 
our uses or our pleasures ; although the Greeks and Bomans had 
no steam-engines, no printing presses, no mariner's compass, no 
telescopes, no microscopes, no gunpowder, yet in our moral and 
political views, in those matters which most determine human 
character, there is a perfect resemblance in these respects. 
Aristotle, and Plato, and Thucydides, and Cicero, and Tacitus, 
are most naturally called ancient writers; they are virtually our 
own countrymen and contemporaries, but have the advantage 
which is enjoyed by intelligent travellers, that their observation 
has been exercised in a field out of the reach of common men ; 
and that, having thus seen in a manner with our eyes what we 
cannot see for ourselves, their conclusions are such as bear upon 
our own circumstances, while their information has all the charm 
of novelty, and all the value of a mass of new and pertinent facts, 
illustrative of the great science of the nature of civilized man. 

Now, when it is said that men in manhood so often throw their 
Greek and Latin aside, and that this very fact shows the useless- 
ness of .their early studies, it is much more true to say that it 
shows how completely the literature of Greece and Bome would 
be forgotten if our system of education did not keep up the know- 
ledge of it. But it by no means shows that system to be useless, 
unless it followed that when a man laid aside his Greek and Latin 
books, he forgot, also, all that he had ever gained from them. 
This, however, is so far from being the case, that even where the 
results of a classical education are least tangible and least appre- 
ciated even by the individual himself, still the mind often retains 
much of the effect of its early studies in the general liberality of 



1837.] ARNOLD. 425 

its tastes and comparative comprehensiveness of its views and 
notions. 

All this supposes, indeed, that classical instruction should be 
sensibly conducted ; it require| that a classical teacher should be 
fully acquainted with modern history and modern literature, no 
less than with those of Greece and Rome. What is, or perhaps 
what used to be, called a mere scholar, cannot possibly communi- 
cate to his pupils the main advantages of a classical education. 
The knowledge of the past is valuable, because without it our 
knowledge of the present and of the future must be scanty ; but 
if the knowledge of the past be confined wholly to itself, if, instead 
of being made to bear upon things around us, it be totally isolated 
from them, and so disguised by vagueness and misapprehension 
as" to appear incapable of illustrating them, then, indeed, it becomes 
little better than laborious trifling, and they who declaim against 
it may be fully forgiven. 



THE PURITANS. 

To say that the Puritans were wanting in humility, because they 
did not acquiesce in the state of things which they found around 
them, is a mere extravagance, arising out of a total misapprehen- 
sion of the nature of humility, and of the merits of the feeling 
of veneration. All earnestness and depth of character is incom- 
patible with such a notion of humility. A man deeply penetrated 
with some great truth, and compelled, as it were, to obey it, can- 
not listen to every one who may be indifferent to it, or opposed to 
it. There is a voice to which he already owes obedience, which 
he serves with the humblest devotion, which he worships with the 
most intense veneration. It is not that such feelings are dead in 
him, but that he has bestowed them on one object and they are 
claimed for another. To which they are most due is a question 
of justice ; he may be wrong in his decision, and his worship may 
be idolatrous; but so also maybe the worship which his opponents 
call upon him to render. If, indeed, it can be shown that a man 
admires and reverences nothing, he may justly be taxed with want 
of humility; but this is at variance with the very notion of an 
earnest character, for its earnestness consists in its devotion to some 
one object, as opposed to a proud or contemptuous indifference. 
But if it be meant that reverence in itself is good, so that the 
more objects of veneration we have the better is our character, 
this is to confound the essential difference between veneration and 
37 



426 ARNOLD. [VICTORIA 

love. The excellence of love is its universality ; we are told that 
even the Highest Object of all cannot be loved if inferior objects 
are hated. And with some exaggeration in the expression, we 
may admit the truth of Coleridge's lines — 

"He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man, and bird, and beast:" 

Insomuch that, if we were to hear of a man sacrificing even his 
life to save that of an animal, we could not help admiring him. 
But the excellence of veneration consists purely in its being fixed 
upon a worthy object; when felt indiscriminately, it is idolatry or 
insanity. To tax any one, therefore, with want of reverence, be- 
cause he pays no respect to what we venerate, is either irrelevant 
or is a mere confusion. The fact, so far as it is true, is no reproach, 
but an honor; because to reverence all persons and all things is 
absolutely wrong : reverence shown to that which does not deserve 
it, is no virtue — no, nor even an amiable weakness, but a plain 
folly and sin. But, if it be meant that he is wanting in proper 
reverence, not respecting what is to be really respected, that is 
assuming the whole questioi^at issue, because what we call divine 
he calls an idol : and as, supposing that we are in the right, we 
are bound to fall down and worship; so, supposing him to be in 
the right, he is no less bound to pull it to the ground and destroy 
it. 



THE DISCOURAGEMENTS AND ENCOURAGEMENTS OF THE 
SCHOOLMASTER.* 

Since I began this letter, I have had some of the troubles of 
school-keeping, and one of those specimens of the evils of boy- 
nature which make me always unwilling to undergo the responsi- 
bility of advising any man to send his son to a public school. 
There has been a system of persecution carried on by the bad 
against the good, and then, when complaint was made to me, 
there came fresh persecution on that very account; and, likewise, 
instances of boys joining in it out of pure cowardice, both physical 
and moral, when, if left to themselves, they would have rather 

* " The dilig-ent and pious teacher, who properly instructeth and traineth the 
young, can never be fully rewarded with money. If I were to leave my ofRce 
as preacher, I would next choose that of schoolmaster, or teacher, for I know 
that, next to preaching, this is the greatest, best, and most useful vocation ; 
and I am not quite sure which of the two is the better ; for it is hard to reform 
old sinners, with whom the preacher has to do, while the young tree can be 
made to bend without breaking." 

Martin Luth^. 



1837.] ARNOLD. 427 

shunned it ; and the exceedingly small number of boys who can 
be relied on for active and steady good on these occasions^ and 
the way in which the decent and respectable of ordinary life 
(Carlyle's " shams") are sure on these occasions to swim with the 
stream and take part with the evil, makes me strongly feel ex- 
emplified what the Scripture says about the strait gate and the 
wide one — a view of human nature which, when looking on hu- 
man life in its full dress of decencies and civilizations, we are apt, 
I imagine, to find it hard to realize ; but here, in the nakedness 
of boy-nature, one is quite able to understand how there could not 
be found even ten righteous in a whole city. And how to meet 
this evil I really do not know; but to find it thus rife after I have 
been years fighting against it, is so sickening that it is very hard 
not to throw up the cards in despair, and upset the table. But 
then the stars of nobleness which I see amidst the darkness are so 
cheering J that one is inclined to sticJc to the ship again, and have 
another good try at getting her about. 



THE WORLD OUR COUNTRY. 

But here that feeling of pride and selfishness interposes, which, 
under the name of patriotism, has so long tried to pass itself off 
for a virtue. As men, in proportion to their moral advancement, 
learn to enlarge the circle of their regards; as an exclusive affec- 
tion for our relations, our clan, or our country, is a sure mark of 
an unimproved mind; so is that narrow and unchristian feeling to 
be condemned which regards with jealousy the progress of foreign 
nations, and cares for no portion of the human race but that to 
which itself belongs. The detestable encouragement so long given 
to national enmities — the low gratification felt by every people in 
extolling themselves above their neighbors — should not be for- 
gotten amongst the causes which have mainly obstructed the im- 
provement of mankind. 

Exclusive patriotism should be cast off, together with the ex- 
clusive ascendency of birth, as belonging to the follies and selfish- 
ness of our uncultivated nature. Yet, strange to say, the former 
at least is upheld by men who not only call themselves Christians, 
but are apt to use the charge of irreligion as the readiest weapon 
against those who differ from them. So little have they learned 
of the spirit of that Revelation which taught emphatically the abo- 
lition of an exclusively national religion and a local worship, that 
so men, being all born of the same blood, might make their sym- 
pathies co-extensive with their bond of universal brotherhood. 

Aj>pendix to Thucydides, vol. i. 



428 ARNOLD. [VTCTORTA 



THE OXFORD CONSPIRATORS. 

But on the character of no party does history throw so full and 
clear a light as on the high church party of the Church of Eng- 
land — the party of the Oxford conspirators. Unlike the political 
Tories, who are only analogously like the Tories of the Revolution, 
by being as much in the rear of the existing generation as the old 
Tories were in the rear of theirs, these church Tories have stirred 
neither actually nor relatively ; they are the very Nonjurors and 
high church clergy of King William's, and Anne's, and George 
the First's reign reproduced, with scarcely a shade of difference. 
Now, as theuj this party is made up of two elements — of the 
Hophni and Phinehas school, on the one hand — the mere low 
worldly clergy, careless and grossly ignorant — ministers not of 
the Grospel, but of the aristocracy, who belong to Christianity 
only from the accident of its being established by law ; and of the 
formalist Judaizing fanatics, on the other hand, who have ever 
been the peculiar disgrace of the Church of England ; for these 
high church fanatics have imbibed, even of fanaticism itself, 
nothing but the folly and the virulence. Other fanatics have 
persecuted, like the Romanists, in order to uphold a magnificent 
system, which, striking its roots deep and stretching its branches 
wide, exercises a vast influence over the moral condition of man, 
and may almost excuse some extravagance of zeal in its behalf. 
Others, again, have been fanatics for freedom, and for what they 
deemed the due authority of God's own word. They were violent 
against human ceremonies — they despised learning — they cast 
away the delicacies, and almost the humanities of society, for the 
sake of asserting two great principles, noble even in their exaggera- 
tion — entire freedom towards man, and entire devotion towards 
God. But the fanaticism of the English high churchman has 
been the fanaticism of mere foolery. A dress, a ritual, a name, a 
ceremony; a technical phraseology; the superstition of a priesthood 
without its power; the form of episcopal government, without 
the substance ; a system imperfect and paralyzed, not independent, 
not sovereign — afraid to cast off the subjection against which it 
is perpetually murmuring. Such are the objects of high church 
fanaticism, objects so pitiful that, if gained ever so completely, 
they would make no man the wiser or the better ; they would 
lead to no good, intellectual, moral, or spiritual; to no effect, 
social or religious, except to the changing of sense into silliness, 
and holiness of heart and life into formality and hypocrisy. 



1837.] souTHEY. 420 

Once, however, and once only, in the history of Christianity, 
do we find a heresy — for never was that term more justly applied 
— so degraded and low-principled as this. We must pass over 
the times of Romanists — we must go back to the very beginning 
of the Christian church, and there, in the Jews and Judaizers of 
the New Testament, we find the only exact resemblance to the high 
churchman of Oxford. In the zealots of circumcision and the 
ceremonies of the law — in the slanderers and persecutors of St. 
Paul — the doters upon old wives' fables and endless genealogies 
— the men of ^' soft words and fair speeches''~of a " voluntary 
humility,' ' all the time that they were calumniating and opposing 
the Gospel and its great apostle — in the malignant fanatics who, 
to the number of more than forty, formed a conspiracy to assas- 
sinate Paul, because he had denied the necessity of ceremonies 
to salvation—" the men of mint, and anise, and cumin," who 
cared not for judgment, mercy, and truth — the enemies and re- 
vilers of the holiest names which earth reverences, and who 
are condemned, in the most emphatic language, by that authority 
which all Christians acknowledge as divine — in these, and in these 
alone, can the party which has headed the late Oxford conspiracy 
find their perfect prototype. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774—1843. 

This distinguished poet and prose writer was the son of a linen-draper 
in Bristol, and was born in that city on the 12ih of August, 1774. After 
going through the ordinary preparatory coarse of study, he entered Baliol 
College, Oxford, in 1792, with the design of entering the church; but as 
his religious views underwent a change, inclining to Unitarianism, he left 
the university in 1794, and, in the same year, published his first poems, in 
conjunction with Mr. Lovell. Of his appearance and character at this 
time, Joseph Cottle thus speaks: "One morning, Robert Lovell called 
on me, and introduced Robert Southey. Never will the impression be 
effaced produced on me by this young man. Tall, dignified, possessing 
great suavity of manners; an eye piercing, with a countenance full of 
genius, kindliness, and intelligence. I gave him at once the right hand of 
fellowship, and, to the moment of his decease, that cordiality was never with- 
drawn."' 

» "Reminiscences of Coleridge and Southey," p. 4. 

S7* 



430 SOUTHEY. [VICTORIA 

About this time he took part in the famous Pantisocratic scheme/ "to 
which all the eager contributors brought golden theories, but so little of the 
more tangible coin that the Utopian project was necessarily relinquished." 
In November of the following year (1795), he married Miss Fricker, of Bris- 
tol, the sister of Mrs. Coleridge. In the winter of the same year, while he 
was on his way to Lisbon, " Joan of Arc" was published. In the following 
summer he returned to Bristol, and in the next year removed to London, 
and entered Gray's Inn. He passed part of the years 1800 and 1801 in 
Portugal, and from Lisbon wrote to Joseph Cottle the following poetical 
letter, which, for ease, vivacity, and vigorous description, stands at the 
head of that class of compositions : — 

Lisbon, Maij 9//(, 1800. 
Dear Cottle, d'ye see, in writing to thee, 
I do it in rhyme, that I may save time, 
Determin'd to say, without any delay, 
Whatever comes first, whether best or worst. 
Alack for me when I was at sea ! 
For I lay like a log, as sick as a dog ; 
And whoever this readeth, will pity poor Edith: 
Indeed it was shocking, the vessel fast rocking, 
The timbers all creaking ; and when we were speaking, 
It was to deplore that we were not on shore, 
And to vow we would never go voyaging more. 

The fear of our fighting did put her a fright in. 
And I had alarms for my legs and ray arms. 
When the matches were smoking, [ thought 'twas no joking, 
And though honor and glory and fame were before me, 
'Twas a great satisfaction that we had not an action. 
And I felt somewhat bolder 
When I knew that my head might remain on my shoulder. 

But 0! 'twas a pleasure, exceeding all measure, 

On the deck to stand, and look at the land ; 

And when I got there, I vow and declare, 

The pleasure was even like getting to Heaven ! 

I could eat and drink, as you may think ; 

I could sleep at ease, except for the fleas ; 

But still the sea-feeling — the drunken reeling — 

Did not go away for more than a day : 

Like a cradle, the bed seemed to rock my head, 

And the room and the town went up and down. 

My Edith here thinks all things queer, 
And some things she likes well; 

But then the street she thinks not neat, 
And does not like the smell. 

Nor do the fleas her fancy please, 
Although the fleas like her; 

' f?ee an account of this in the notice of Coleridire. 



1837.] SOUTHEY. 431 

They at first view fell merrily to, 
For they made no demur. 

But O the sight! the great delight! 
From this my window, west ! 

This view so fine, this scene divine ! 
The joy that I love best ! 

The TagLis here, so broad and clear, 
Bine, in the clear blue noon — 

And it lies light, all silver white. 
Under the silver moon! 

Adieu, adieu, farewell to you, 
Farewell, my friend so dear ; 

Write when you may, I need not say 
How gladly we shall hear. 

I leave off rhyme, and so next time 
Prose writing you shall see ; 

But in rhyme or prose, dear Joseph knows 
The same old friend in me. 

Robert Southet. 

Soon after Southey's return to England, he established himself at 
Keswick, in the lake country, where he lived for the remainder of his life. 
In 1805, he published his " Madoc," and in 1810 the " Curse of Kehama." 
In 1813, on the death of Mr. Pye, Southey was appointed poet laureate. In 
1814, he published " Roderic, the Last of the Goths," and in 1821 " The 
Vision of Judgment." The same year he received his doctor's degree 
from the University of Oxford. In 1825, appeared " The Tale of Paraguay," 
the latest of his longer poems. Besides these, he wrote an almost infinite 
number of smaller pieces of poetry, and numerous prose works, which 
have given him the character of one of the very best writers in the language, 
for a clear, vigorous, manly, and graceful style. Of these, the most im- 
portant are the "Book of the Church," the "History of the Peninsular 
War," the " History of the Brazils," and the Lives of "Nelson."' 
"Wesley," " Cowper," " Chatterton," and " Henry Kirke White." He 
was a regular contributor for many years to the " Quarterly Review,"^ and 
was the author of that remarkable book, " The Doctor." 

* In his " Life of Nelson," I regret to say, there are some most exception- 
able sentiments — sentiments utterly at variance with the spirit and teachings 
of Christianity. 

=» The following is a list of his articles in the " London Quarterly," as given 
by Joseph Cottle in his "Reminiscences," up to 1825: In No. 1, Baptist 
Mission in India; 2, Portuguese Literature; 3, South Sea Missions — Lord 
Valentia's Travels; 4, American Annals; 5, Life of Nelson ; 6, Season at 
Tongataboo — Graham's Georgics ; 7, Observador Porluguez ; 8, Feroe Islands 
— On the Evangelical Sects; 11, Bell and Lancaster; 12, The Inquisition — 
Montgomery's Poems; 13, Iceland; 14, French Revolutionists; 15, Count 
Julian — Calamities of Authors ; 16, Manufacturing System and the Poor; 19, 
Bogue and Bennett's History of the Dissenters; 21, Nicobar Islands— Mont- 
gomerv's World before the Flood ; 22, 23, British Poets ; 23, Oriental Me- 
moirs ; 21, Lewis and Clark's Travels— Barre Roberts ; 25, Miot's Expedi- 
tion to Egypt ; 25, 26, Life of Wellington ; 28, Alfieri ; 29, Me. La Roche 
Jacqueline— The Poor ; 30, Ali Bey's Travels— Foreign Travellers in Eng- 



432 SOUTHEY. [VICTORIA 

But " excess of mental labor in every department of literature — poetry, 
history, biography, criticism, and philosophy — continued, from year to year, 
without cessation, bowed his strong spirit at last, and obscured the genius 
which had so long cast glory upon the literature of the age." For three 
years before his death, his mind was so far gone that he was not able to 
recognize those who had been his companions from his youth.' Scarce- 
ly could his wife console herself with the poor hope that he recog- 
nized even her. He died at his residence in Keswick, on the 21st of 
March, 1843, in the sixty-ninth year of his age. "In all the relations of 
life, Mr. Southey was universally allowed, by those who knew him best, 
to be truly exemplary. His house at the lakes was open to all who pre- 
sented themselves with suitable introduction, and there are few persons of 
any distinction, who have passed through that picturesque region, who have 
not partaken of his hospitality." He enjoyed a pension of three hundred 
pounds a year from the government, granted in 1835 by Sir Robert Peel, 
and left personal property to the amount of twelve thousand pounds, and 
a very rich and valuable library, all the fruits of his own literary labors.^ 

land ; 31, Parliamentary Reform ; 32, Porter's Travels — Rise and Progress of 
Disaffection ; 33, Tonga Islands ; 35, Lope de Vega ; 37, Evelyn on the Means 
of Improving the People; 41, Copyright Act; 42, Cemeteries; 43, Monastic 
Institutions; 45, Life of Marlborough; 46, New Churches; 48, Life ofWm. 
Huntington, S. S. ; 50, Life of Cromwell; 52, Dobrizhoffer ; 53, Camoens; 
55, Gregorie's Religious Sects; 56, Infidelity; 57, Burnetts Own Times; 
59, Dwight's Travels; 62, Hayley — Mrs. Baillie's Lisbon. 

' Read a most interesting and feeling letter on this painful incident, from 
Mr. Cottle to the Rev. .lohn Foster, at page 310 of the " Reminiscences." 

2 The following is Coleridge's estimate of Southey : — 

" Southey stands second to no man. either as an historian or as a biblio- 
grapher ; and when I regard him as a popular essayist, I look in vain for any 
writer who has conveyed so much information, from so many and such recon- 
dite sources, with so many just and original reflections, in a style so lively 
and poignant, yet so uniformly classical and perspicuous ; no one, in short, 
who has combined so much wisdom with so much wit — so much truth and 
knowledge with so much life and fancy. His prose is always intelligible, and 
always entertaining. It is Southey's almost unexampled felicity to possess 
the best gifts of talent and genius, free from all their characteristic defects. As 
son, brother, husband, father, master, friend, he moves with firm yet light 
steps, alike unostentatious, and alike exemplary. As a writer, he has uniform- 
ly made his talents subservient to the best interests of humanity, of public 
virtue, and domestic piety; his cause has ever been the cause of pure reli- 
gion and of liberty, of national independence, and of national illumination." 

Bio. Lit. 

To this I may add the following criticism of Professor "Wilson : — 

" Southey, among all our living poets," says Professor Wilson, "stands aloof, 
and ' alone in his glory." For he alone of them all has adventured to illustrate, 
in poems of magnitude, the different cliaracters, customs, and manners of 
nations. < Joan of Arc' is an English and French story — • Thaliba' an Ara- 
bian one — ' Kehama' is Indian — ' Madoc' Welsh and American — and ' Roderic' 
Spanish and Moorish ; nor would it be easy to say (setting aside the first, 
which was a very youthful work) in which of these noble poems Mr. Soutliey 
has most successfully performed an achievement entirely beyond the power 
of any but the highest genius. In 'Madoc,' and especially in ' Roderic,' he 
has relied on the truth of Nature — as it is seen in the history of great national 
transactions and events. In 'Thaliba' and 'Kehama,' though in them, too, he 



1837.] souTHEY. 433 



FRANCE — BONAPARTE.* 

France ! beneath this fierce barbarian's sway 

Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times! 
Rapine, and blood, and fire have mark'd thy way, 

All loathsome, all unutterable crimes. 
A curse is on thee, France ! from far and wide 
It hath gone up to heaven. All lands have cried 

For vengeance upon thy detested head ! 
All nations curse thee, France ! for wheresoe'er, 

In peace or war, thy banner hath been spread, 
All forms of human woe have follow'd there. 

The living and the dead 
Cry out alike against thee ! They who bear, 
Crouching beneath its weight, thine iron yoke, 
Join in the bitterness of secret prayer 

The voice of that innumerable throng 
Whose slaughter'd spirits, day and night, invoke 

The everlasting Judge of right and wrong. 

How long, Lord ! Holy and Just, how long ! 

A merciless oppressor hast thou been. 

Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime ; 
Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain 

Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime, 
And rivet faster round thyself the chain ! 

Oh ! blind to honor, and to interest blind, 

When thus, in abject servitude resign'd 
To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave 

God's justice, and the heart of humankind ! 

Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world, 
Thyself, the while, a miserable slave. 

Behold, the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd ! 
The dreadful armies of the North advance ; 

While England, Portugal, and Spain combined, 

Give their triumphant banners to the wind, 
And stand victorious in the fields of France. 

One man hath been, for ten long, wretched years, 
The cause of all this blood, and all these tears ; 

One man in this most awful point of time 

Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime. 

has brought to bear an almost boundless lore, he follows the leading of fancy 
and imagination, and walks in a world of wonders. Seldom, if ever, has one 
and the same poet exhibited such power in such different kinds of poetry ; in 
truth a master, and in fiction a magician. Of all these poems, the concep- 
tion and the execution are original ; in much, faulty and imperfect both, but 
bearing throughout the impress of highest genius, and breathing a moral 
charm, in the midst of the wildest, and sometimes even extravagant imagin- 
ings, that shall preserve them forever from oblivion, and embalm them in the 
spirit of love and of delight." 
*■ Written during the negotiations with Bonaparte, in 1814. 



434 SOUTHEY, [VICTORIA 

Wait not too long the event, 

For now whole Europe comes against thee bent ; 

His wiles and their own strength the nations know : 
Wise from past wrongs, on future peace intent, 
The people and the princes, with one mind. 

From all parts move against the general foe ; 
One act of justice, one atoning blow, 
One execrable head laid low. 
Even yet, O France ! averts thy punishment. 
Open thine eyes! — too long hast thou been blind ; 
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 

France ! if thou lovest thine ancient fame, 
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame ! 
By the bones which bleach on Jaffa's beach ; 
By the blood which, on Domingo's shore, 
Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore ; 
By the flesh which gorged the wolves of Spain, 
Or stifFen'd on the snowy plain 
Of frozen Moscovy ; 
By the bodies which lie all open to the sky, 
Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the tyrant's flight ; 
By the widow's and the orphan's cry; 
By the childless parent's misery; 
By the lives which he hath shed ; 
By the ruin he hath spread ; 
/"By the prayers which rise for curses on his head — 
Redeem, O France! thine ancient fame. 
Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame : 
Open thine eyes ! — too long hast thou been blind ; 
Take vengeance for thyself and for mankind ! 

By those horrors which the night 

Witness 'd when the torches' light 
To the assembled murderers show'd 
Where the blood of Conde flow'd; 

By thy murder'd Pichegru's fame ; 

By murder'd Wright — an English name ; 
By murder'd Palm's atrocious doom; 
By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom — 

Oh ! by the virtuous blood thus vilely spilt. 

The villain's own peculiar, private guilt, 
Open thine eyes! — too long hast thou been blind ; 
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



It was a summer evening, 
Old Kaspar's work was done, 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun ; 



1837.] souTHEY. 435 

And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild VVhilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 

Roll something large and round 
Which he beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found ; 
He came to ask what he had found, 
That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

" I find them in the garden. 

For there's many here about j 
And often, when I go to plough. 

The ploughshare turns them out ! 
For many thousand men," said he, 
" Were siain in that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twa* all about," 

Young Peterkin, he cries ; 
While little Whilhelmine looks up. 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
" Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they kill'd each other for." 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 

"Who put the French to rout; 
But what they kill'd each other for, 

I could not well make out. 
But everybody said," quoth he, 
" That 'twas a famous victory. 

"My father lived at Blenheim then, 
Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

" With fire and sword, the country round 
Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother then, 

And new-born baby, died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 
After the field was won; 
For many thousand bodies here 
Lay rotting in the sun ; 



436 SOUTHEY. [VICTORIA 

But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 

And our good prince, Eugene." 
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" 

Said httle Whilhelmine. 
" Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

" And everybody praised the Duke, 
Who this great fight did win." 
" And what good came of it at last V 
Quoth little Peter kin. 
" Why, that I cannot tell," said he, 
" But 'twas a famous victory." 



THE IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. 

They sin, who tell us love can die : 
With life all other pessions fly. 

All others are but vanity ; 
In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 

Earthly these passions of the earth, 

They perish where they have their birth; 
But love is indestructible : 

Its holy flame forever burneth. 

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth , 
Too oft on earth a troubled guest, 
At times deceived, at times oppress'd, 

It here is tried and purified, 
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : 
It soweth here with toil and care. 
But the harvest-time of love is there. 

Oh ! when a mother meets on high 

The babe she lost in infancy, 

Hath she not then, for pains and fears. 
The day of woe, the watchful night. 

For all her sorrow, all her tears. 
An over-payment of delight ? 



THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. 

" And wherefore do the poor complain?" 
The rich man asked of me; 

" Come walk abroad with me," I said, 
" And I will answer thee." 



1837.] souTHEY. 437 

. 'Twas evening, and the frozen streets 

Were cheerless to behold ; 
And we were wrapp'd and coated well, 
And yet we were a-cold. 

We met an old, bareheaded man. 

His locks were few and white ; 
I ask'd him what he did abroad 

In that cold winter's night. 

'Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said — 

But at home no fire had he ; 
And therefore he had come abroad 

To ask for charity. 

We met a young barefooted child, 

And she begg'd loud and bold ; 
I asked her what she did abroad 

When the wind it blew so cold. 

She said her father was at home, 

And he lay sick in bed; 
And therefore was it she was sent 

Abroad to beg for bread. 

We saw a woman sitting down 

Upon a stone to rest ; 
She had a baby at her back. 

And another at her breast. 

I ask'd her why she loiter 'd there, 

When the night-wind was so chill ; 
She turn'd her head, and bade the child 

That scream'd behind, be still. 

She told us that her husband served, 

A soldier, far away ; 
And therefore to her parish she 

Was begging back her way. 

I turn'd me to the rich man then. 

For silently stood he ; 
" You ask'd me why the poor complain 

And these have answer'd thee !" 



TO A SPIDER. 

Spider ! thou need'st not run in fear about 

To shun my curious eyes ; 
I won't humanely crush thy bowels out. 

Lest thou shouldst eat the flies ; 
Nor will I roast thee with a fierce delight, 
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, 
For there is one who might 
One day roast me. 

38 



438 SOUTHEY. [VICTORIA 

Thou'rt welcome to a Rhymer sore perplex'd, 

The subject of his verse : 
There's many a one who on a better text 

Perhaps might comment worse ; 
Then shrink not, old Freemason, from my view, 
But quietly, like me, spin out the line ; 
Do thou thy work pursue, 
As I will mine. 

Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways 

Of Satan, sire of lies; 
Hell's huge black spider, for mankind he lays 

His toils as thou for flies. 
When Betty's busy eye runs round the room, 
Woe to that nice geometry if seen ! 
But where is he whose broom 
The earth shall clean ? 

Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought, 

And 'twas a likeness true, 
To emblem laws in whirsli the weak are caught. 

But which the strong break through; 
And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en. 

Like some poor client is that wretched fly ; 
I'll "warrant thee thou'lt drain 
His life-blood dry. 

And is not thy weak work like human schemes 

And care on earth employ'd ? 
Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams, 

So easily destroy'd! 
So does the Statesman, while the avengers sleep, 
Self deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay ; 
Soon shall destruction sweep 
His work away. 

Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more 

Shall yet the verse prolong. 
For, Spider, thou art like the Poet poor, 

Whom thou hast help'd in song: 
Both busily our needful food to win. 

We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains — 
Thy bowels thou dost spin, 
I spin my brains. 



REMEMBRANCE. 

The remembrance of youth is a sigh. — AH. 

Man hath a weary pilgrimage, 
As through the world he wends ; 

On every stage, from youth to age, 
Still discontent attends ; 



SOTJTHEY. 439 



With heaviness he casts his eye 

Upon the road before, 
And still remembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 

To school the little exile goes, 
Torn from his mother's arms — 

What then shall soothe his earliest woes, 
When novelty hath lost its charms'? 

Condemn'd to suffer through the day 

Restraints which no rewards repay, 

And cares where love has no concern, 
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours 

Before his wish'd return. 

From hard control and tyrant rules. 
The unfeeling discipline of schools, 

In thought he loves to roam, 

And tears will struggle in his eye. 
While he remembers with a sigh 

The comforts of his home. 

Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life 

Torment the restless mind ; 
Wiiere shall the tired and harass'd heart 

Its consolation find ? 
Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, 

Life's summer prime of joy 1 
Ah no! for hopes too long delay'd, 
And feelings blasted or betray'd. 

Its fabled bliss destroy ; 
And Youth remembers with a sigh 
The careless days of Infancy. 

Maturer Manlxood now arrives. 

And other thoughts come on, 
But with the baseless hopes of Youth 

Its generous warmth is gone : 
Cold, calculating cares succeed. 
The timid thought, the wary deed, 

The dull reaUties of truth ; 
Back on the past he turns his eye, 
Remembering, with an envious sigh. 

The happy dreams of Youth. 
So reaches he the latter stage 
Of this our mortal pilgrimage, 

With feeble step and slow; 
New ills that latter stage await, 
And old Experience learns too late 

That all is vanity below. 
Life's vain delusions are gone by: 

Its idle hopes are o'er; 
Yet Age remembers witli a sigh 

The days that are ijo more. 



440 SOUTHEY. [VICTORIA 



THE OLD man's COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. 

" You are old, Father William," the young man cried ; 
" The few locks which are left you are gray. 
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ; 
Now tell me the reason, I pray ?" 

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, 
" I remember'd that youth would fly fast, 
And abused not my health and my vigor at first, 
That I never might need them at last." 

" You are old, Father William," the young man cried, 
" And pleasures with youth pass away. 
And yet you lament not the days that are goiic ; 
Now tell me the reason, I pray?" 

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, 
"I remember'd that youth could not last; 
I thought of the future, whatever I did. 
That I never might grieve for the past." 

" You are old, Father William," the young man cried, 
"And life must be hastening away; 
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; 
Now tell me the reason, I pray ?" 

" I am cheerful, young man," Father William rephed ; 
" Let the cause thy attention engage : 
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! 
And He hath not forgotten my age !" 



FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD. 

Here Latimer and Ridley in the flames 
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd 
Uprightly through the world, just thoughts of joy 
May fill thy breast in contemplating here 
Congenial virtue. But, if thou hast swerved 
From the straight path of even rectitude. 
Fearful in trying seasons to assert 
The better cause, or to forsake the worse 
Reluctant, when perchance therein enthrall'd 
Slave to false shame, oh ! thankfully receive 
The sharp, compunctious motions that this spot 
May wake within thee, and be wise in time. 
And let the future for the past atone. 



1837.] SOUTHEY. - 441 



ODE, WRITTEN DURING THE WAR WITH AMERICA, 1814. 

» 
When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay 

The thunderbolt aside, 
And, twining olives with her laurel crown, 

Rest in the bower of peace ? 

Not long may this unnatural strife endure 

Beyond the Atlantic deep ; 
Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk, 

And insolent in wrong, 
Afflict with their misrule the indignant land 
Where Washington hath left 
His awful memory 
A light for after-times! 
Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny, 
In their own annals, by their countrymen. 
For lasting shame shall tliey be written down. 
Soon may the better Genius there prevail ! 
Then will the Island Queen of Ocean lay 

The thunderbolt aside. 
And, twining olives with her laurel crown, 
Rest in the Bower of Peace ! 
****** 
From public fountains the perennial stream 
Of public weal must flow. 
England ! wheresoe'er thy churches stand, 
There on that sacred ground, 
Where the rich harvest of mortality 
Is laid, as in a garner, treasured up. 
There plant the Tree of Knowledge ! Water it 
With thy perpetual bounty! It shall spread 
Its branches o'er the venerable pile. 
Shield it against the storm, 
And bring forth fruits of life. 

Train up thy children, England! in the ways 
Of righteousness, and feed them with the bread 
Of wholesome doctrine. Where hast thou thy mines 
But in their industry? 
Thy bulwarks where, but in their breasts 7 
Thy might, but in their arms'? 
Shall not their numbers therefore be thy wealth, 
Thy strength, thy power, thy safety, and thy pride ? 
O grief then, grief and shame, 
If, in this flourishing land, 
There should be dwellings where the new-born babe 
Doth bring unto its parents' soul no joy ! 
Where squalid Poverty 
Receives it at its birth, 



442 SOUTHEY. [VICTORIA 

And on her wither'd knees 
Gives it the scanty food of discontent! 

Queen of the Seas ! enlarge thyself; 
, Redundant as thou art of life and power, 
Be thou the hive of nations, 
And send thy swarms abroad ! 
Send them, like Greece of old, 
With arts and science to enrich 
The uncultivated earth; 
But with more precious gifts than Greece, or Tyre, 
Or elder Egypt to the world bequeath'd — 
Just laws and rightful polity, 
And, crowning all, the dearest boon of Heaven, 
Its word and will reveal'd. 
Queen of the Seas ! enlarge 
The place of thy pavilion. Let them stretch 
The curtains of thine habitations forth ! 

Spare not; but lengthen thou 
Thy cords, make strong thy stakes. 

Queen of the Seas! enlarge thyself; 
Send thou thy swarms abroad ! 
For in the years to come, 
Though centuries or millenniums intervene. 
Where'er thy progeny. 
Thy language, and thy spirit shall be found — 
If on Ontario's shores, 
Or late-explored Missouri's pastures wide, 

Or in that Austral world long sought. 
The many-isled Pacific — yea, where waves. 
Now breaking over coral reefs, atfright 
The venturous mariner. 
When islands shall have grown, and cities risen 
In cocoa groves embower'd ; 
Where'er thy language lives, 
By whatsoever name the land be call'd, 

That land is English still, and there 
Thy influential spirit dwells and reigns. 
Thrones fall, and Dynasties are changed ; 
Empires decay and sink 
Beneath their own unwieldy weight; 
Dominion passeth like a cloud away : 
The imi^erishable mind 
Survives all meaner things. 

Train up thy children, England, in the ways 
Of righteousness, and feed them with the bread 
Of wholesome doctrine. Send thy swarms abroad ! 
Send forth thy humanizing arts. 

Thy stirring enterprise. 
Thy liberal polity, thy Gospel light ! 
Illume the dark idolater, 
Reclaim the savage! O thou Ocean Queen! 



1837.] FOSTER. ,. 443 

Be these thy toils when thou hast laid 
The thunderbolt aside : 
He who hath blest thine arms 
Will bless thee in these holy works of Peace ! 
^ Father ! thy kingdom come, and as in heaven 

Thy will be done on earth. 



JOHN FOSTER, 1770-1843. 

John Foster, the author of many well known Christian essays, was 
born in Yorkshire, in 1770, and was educated in the Baptist College at 
Bristol. After completing his course of theological studies, he was settled 
as a clergyman in several different places, the last of which was at Donn- 
end, near Bristol: but the character of his mind being such as fitted him 
for a life of meditation and study rather than for the regular exercise of 
the pastoral office, he retired from public engagements, and spent the re- 
mainder of his time in literary pursuits in Stapleton, near Bristol, where 
he resided, preaching only occasionally, until the time of his death, which 
took place on the 15th of October, 1843. 

In 1805, he first published his " Essays, in a Series of Letters to a Friend," 
which took rank, immediately, as among the most original and valuable 
works of the day. These essays were four in number, namely, "On a 
Man's writing Memoirs of Himself;" " On Decision of Character ;" " On 
the Application of the Epithet Romantic;" and " On some of the Causes 
by which Evangelical Religion has been Rendered less Acceptable to Per- 
sons of Cultivated Taste." These essays passed through many editions, 
and are " models of vigorous thought and expression, uniting metaphysical 
nicety and acuteness with practical sagacity and common sense." He also 
wrote a volume on the "Evils of Popular Ignorance," and many critical 
contributions to the "Eclectic Review,"^ 

The following notice of Mr. Foster appeared in the "Bristol Mirror," 
a short time after his death: "The well-known character of his various 
essays, instinct as they are with an energy of feeling and surpassing vigor 
of conception, such as at once make the reader feel himself listening to a 
spirit of pre-eminent powers, makes it unnecessary for us to attempt any 
lengthened portraiture of his massive intellect. Few writers in the whole 
range of literature possess in an equal degree the power to touch and set in 
motion the springs of serious reflection. A closer inspection of his mind 
convinced those who were admitted to the rare privilege of personal inter- 
course with him, that those really masterly productions, though much ela- 

* These have been published in one volume, under the title of " ^ographical, 
Literary, and Philosophical Essays, contributed to the Eclectic Review^" 



444 FOSTER. [VICTORIA 

borated, were not exhausting efforts, but rather natural specimens of the 
thoughts and sentiments which habitually dwelt within him. They testify 
that, with a mind profoundly meditative, deeply imbued with ' the powers of 
the world to come,' and ardently, even to impatience, desirous of the ad- 
vancement of mankind in freedom, truth, and piety, he united vast stores 
of knowledge on a great variety of subjects, and an exquisite perception 
and appreciation of whatever was sublime or beautiful, whether in thought, 
nature, or art. The same strong principle of benevolence which has tinc- 
tured his writings with so vehement a hatred of all that tends to make men 
vicious and miserable, communicated to his conversation and demeanor a 
kindness, and even gentleness, which could not fail to win for him the love 
as well as veneration of all who knew him. His piety towards God, and 
charity tovvards men, were as deep as they were unostentatious. He was 
an unaffectedly great and good man."^ 



CHANGES FROM YOUTH TO AGE. 

If a reflective aged man were to find at the bottom of an old 
chest — where it had lain forgotten fifty years — a record which he 
had written of himself when he was young, simply and vividly 
describing his whole heart and pursuits, and reciting verbatim 
many passages of the language which he sincerely uttered, would 
he not read it with more wonder than almost every other writing 
could at his age inspire ? He would half lose the assurance of his 
identity, under the impression of this immense dissimilarity. It 
would seem as if it must be the tale of the juvenile days of some 
ancestor, with whom he had no connection but that of name. He 
would feel the young man thus introduced to him separated by so 
wide a distance of character as to render all congenial sociality 
impossible. At every sentence he would be tempted to repeat — 
*' Foolish youth, I have no sympathy with your feelings: I can hold 
no converse with your understanding.'' Thus, you see that in the 
course of a long life a man may be several moral persons, so various 
from one another that, if you could find a real individual that should 
nearly exemplify the character in one of these stages, and another 

* His celebrated friend, the late Uobert Hall, bestowed upon him the follow- 
ing just and beautiful eulogium : " He paints metaphysics, and has the happy 
art of arraying- what in other hands would appear cold and comfortless abstrac- 
tions in the warmest colors of fancy. Without quitting his argument in pur- 
suit of ornament or imagery, his imagination becomes the perlect handmaid 
of his reason, ready at every moment to spread lier canvas, and present her 
pencil. But what affords us the deepest satisfaction is to find such talents en- 
listed on the side of true Christianity ; nor can we lorbear indulging a benevo- 
lent triumpJ^ on the accession to tlie cause of evangelical piety of powers 
which its most distinguished opponents would be proud to possess." 



JS37.] FOSTER. 445 

tliat should exemplify it in the next, and so on to the last, and 
then bring these several persons together into one society, which 
would thus be a representation of the successive states of one man, 
they would feel themselves a most heterogeneous party, would 
oppose and probably despise one another, and soon after separate, 
not caring if they were never to meet again. If the dissimilarity 
in mind were as great as in person, there would in both respects 
be a most striking contrast between the extremes at least, between 
the youth of seventeen and the sage of seventy. The one of these 
contrasts an old man might contemplate if he had a true portrait 
for which he sat in the bloom of his life, and should hold it beside 
a mirror in which he looks at his present countenance ; and the 
other would be powerfully felt if he had such a genuine and de- 
tailed memoir as I have supposed. Might it not be worth while 
for a self-observant person, in early life, to preserve, for the inspec- 
tion of the old man, if he should live so long, such a mental like- 
ness of the young one ? If it be not drawn near the time, it can 
never be drawn with sufficient accuracy. 



ADVANTAGES OF DECISION OF CHARACTER. 

One signal advantage possessed by a mind of this character is 
that its passions are not wasted. The whole amount of passion 
of which any mind, with important transactions before it, is capable, 
is not more than enough to supply interest and energy to its prac- 
tical exertions; and, therefore, as little as possible of this sacred 
fire should be expended in a way that does not augment the force 
of action. But nothing can less contribute to vigor of eiFort than 
protracted anxious fluctuation, intermixed with resolutions decided 
and revoked, while yet nothing causes a greater expense of feeling. 
The heart is fretted and exhausted by being subjected to an alter- 
nation of contrary excitements, with the ultimate mortifying con- 
sciousness of their contributing to no end. 

The long-wavering deliberation, whether to perform some bold 
action of difficult virtue, has often cost more to feeling than the 
action itself, or a series of such actions, would have cost; with the 
great disadvantage, too, of being relieved by none of that invigo- 
ration which, to the man in action, would have sprung from the 
spirit of the action itself, and have renovated the ardor which it 
was expending. A person of decisive character, by consuming as 
little passion as possible in dubious musings and abortive resolu- 
tions, can secure its utmost value and use by throwing it all into 
effective operation. 



446 FOSTER. [victoria 

Another advantage of this character is that it exempts from a 
great deal of interference and persecution, to which an irresolute 
man is subjected. "Weakness, in every form, tempts arrogance; 
and a man may be allowed to wish for a kind of character with 
which stupidity and impertinence may not make so free. When 
a firm, decisive spirit is recognized, it is curious to see how the 
space clears around a man, and leaves him room and freedom. 
The disposition to interrogate, dictate, or banter preserves a re- 
spectful and politic distance, judging it not unwise to keep the 
peace with a person of so much energy. A conviction that he 
understands and that he wills with extraordinary force, silences 
the conceit that intended to perplex or instruct him, and intimi- 
dates the malice that was disposed to attack him. There is a 
feeling, as in respect to fate, that the decrees of so inflexible a 
spirit must be right, or that, at least, they toill be accomplished. 

But not only will he secure the freedom of acting for himself; 
he will obtain also, by degrees, the coincidence of those in whose 
company he is to transact the business of life. If the manners 
of such a man are free from arrogance, and he can qualify his 
firmness with a moderate degree of insinuation ; and if his mea- 
sures have partly lost the appearance of being the dictates of his 
will, under the wider and softer sanction of some experience that 
they are reasonable; both competition and fear will be laid to 
sleep, and his will may acquire an unresisted ascendency over 
many who will be pleased to fall into the mechanism of a system, 
which they find makes them more successful and happy than they 
could have been amidst the anxiety of adjusting plans and expe- 
dients of their own, and the consequences of often adjusting them 
ill. I have known several parents, both fathers and mothers, 
whose management of their families has answered this description; 
and has displayed a striking example of the facile complacency 
with which a number of persons, of different ages and dispositions, 
will yield to the decisions of a firm mind, acting on an equitable 
and enlightened system. 

The last resource of this character is hard, inflexible pertinacity, 
on which it may be allowed to rest its strength, after finding it 
can be effectual in none of its milder forms. I remember admir- 
ing an instance of this kind, in a firm, sagacious, and very esti- 
mable old man, whom I well knew, and who is now dead. Being 
on a jury, in a trial of life and death, he was completely satisfied 
of the innocence of the prisoner; the other eleven were of the 
opposite opinion. But he was resolved the man should not 
be condemned; and, as the first effort for preventing it, very pro- 
perly made application to the minds, of his associates, spending 



1837.] FOSTER. " 447 

several hours in laboring to convince tliem. But he found he 
made no impression, while he was exhausting the strength which 
was to be reserved for another mode of operation. He then 
calmly told them, it should now be a trial who could endure con- 
finement and famine the longest, and that they might be quite 
assured he would sooner die than release them at the expense of 
the prisoner's life. In this situation they spent about twenty-four 
hours, when, at length, all acceded to his verdict of acquittal. 



CHARACTER OF FRANKLIN. 

In a general moral estimate of Franklin's qualities, insincerity 
would seem to find very little place. His principles appear to 
have borne a striking correspondence, in simplicity, directness, 
and decision, to the character of his understanding. Credit may 
be given i)iim for having, through life, very rarely prosecuted any 
purpose which he did not deliberately approve; and his manner 
of prosecution was distinguished, as far as appears, by a plain 
honesty in the choice of means, by a contempt of artifice and petty 
devices, by a calm inflexibility, and by a greater confidence of suc- 
cess than is usually combined with so clear and extended a fore- 
sight of the difficulties; but indeed that foresight of the difficulties 
might justify his confidence of the adaptation of his measures for 
encountering them. 

He appears to have possessed an almost invincible self-command, 
which bore him through all the negotiations, strifes with igno- 
rance, obstinacy, duplicity, and opposing interest, and through 
tiresome delays and untoward incidents, with a sustained firmness, 
which preserved to him in all cases the most advantageous exer- 
cise of his faculties, and with a prudence of deportment beyond 
the attainment of the most disciplined adepts in mere political 
intrigue and court-practice. He was capable, indeed, of feeling 
an intense indignation, which comes out in full expression in some 
of the letters, relating to the character of the English govern- 
ment, as displayed in its policy toward America. This bitter 
detestation is the most unreservedly disclosed in some of his con- 
fidential correspondence with David Hartley, an English member 
of Parliament, a personal friend of Franklin, a constant advocate, 
to a measured extent, of the Americans, and a sort of self-offered, 
clandestine, but tacitly-recognized medium for a kind of under- 
standing, at some critical periods, between the English government 
and Dr. Franklin, without costing the ministers the condescension 



448 FOSTER. [victoria 

of oflficial intercourse and inquiry. These vituperative passages 
have a corrosive energy, by virtue of force of mind and of justice, 
which perfectly precludes all appearance of littleness and mere 
temper in the indignation. It is the dignified character of Cato 
or Aristides. And if a manifestation of it in similar terms ever 
took place in personal conference with such men as were its objects, 
it must have appeared anything rather than an ungoverned irrita- 
bility; nor would it have been possible to despise the indignant 
tone in which contempt was mingled with anger, as far as the two 
sentiments are compatible. 

His predominant passion appears to have been a love of the 
useful. The useful was to him the summum honum, the supreme 
fair, the sublime and beautiful, which it may not perhaps be ex- 
travagant to believe he was in quest of every week for half a 
century, in whatever place, or study, or practical undertaking. 
No department was too plain or humble for him to occupy himself 
in for this purpose; and in affairs of the most ambitious order this 
was still systematically his object. Whether in directing the con- 
structing of chimneys or of constitutions, lecturing on the saving 
of candles or on the economy of national revenues, he was still 
intent on the same end, the question always being how to obtain 
the most of solid tangible advantage by the plainest and easiest 
means. There has rarely been a mortal, of high intelligence and 
flattering fame, on whom the pomps of life were so powerless. 
On him were completely thrown away the oratorical and poetical 
heroics about glory, of which heroics it was enough that he easily 
perceived the intention or effect to be, to explode all sober truth 
and substantial good, and to impel men, at the very best of the 
matter, through some career of vanity, but commonly through 
mischief, slaughter, and devastation, in mad pursuit of what 
amounts at last, if attained, to some certain quantity of noise, and 
empty show, and intoxicated transient elation. He was so far an 
admirable spirit for acting the Mentor to a young republic. It 
will not be his fault if the citizens of America shall ever become 
so servile to European example as to think a multitude of super- 
numerary places, enormous salaries, and a factitious economy of 
society, a necessary security or decoration of that political liberty 
which they enjoy in pre-eminence above every nation on earth. 
In these letters of their patriarch and philosopher, they will be 
amply warned, by repeated and emphatical representations, of the 
desperate mischief of a political system in which the public re- 
sources shall be expended in a way to give the government both 
the interest and the means to corrupt the people. 



1837.] CAMPBELL. 449 



THOMAS CAMPBELL, 1777—1844. 

Thomas Campbell, the celebrated English poet, was the son of a mer- 
chant in Glasgow, and was born in that city on the 27th of July, 1777. 
After finishing his academical course at the University of Glasgow, where 
he gave much promise of future fame, he accepted the situation of a tutor 
in a family in Argyleshire. After remaining here a short time, he went to 
Edinburgh in the winter of 1 798, with the first rough draft of the " Pleasures 
of Hope" in his pocket, and showed it to Dugald Stewart and Dr. Robert 
Anderson, who praised it warmly, and prophesied its success. It was de- 
dicated to Dr. Anderson, and published in April, 1799. The author was so 
unwise as to sell the copyright for the small sum of twenty guineas, to 
Mundell, the bookseller ; but when it became popular, Mundell behaved 
very handsomely, and gave the poet fifty pounds for every after edition. 

With "money in his purse" Campbell had an earnest desire to visit 
Germany. He did so, and was gone about thirteen months; and on his 
return made arrangements for the publication of a complete edition of all 
his poems in a quarto form, which appeared in London in 1803. On the 
11th of October, the same year, he married Miss Matilda Sinclair, of Edin- 
burgh, and fixed his residence in Sydenham, in Kent, working for his bread 
by contributing to magazines, newspapers, &c. In 1805, he received a 
pension of two hundred pounds a year, which came very opportunely to 
save him from great pecuniary embarrassment. In 1809, he added another 
wreath to his fame by the publication of " Gertrude of Wyoming," in which 
" the exceeding poverty of the story is concealed by the elegance of the 
descriptive passages, and the sweetness and delicacy of the poetical lan- 
guage, which charms us with its grace and melody." 

His next great work was the " Specimens of the British Poets," in seven 
octavo volumes, published in 1819. The " Preliminary Essay" to this work 
is a charming piece of prose, and the little prefatory notices abound in de- 
lightful criticism.* The next year he entered upon the editorship of the 
"New Monthly Magazine." He contributed but little, however, to this 
periodical, though he drew around him a band of clever writers, who made 
it very popular. In 1824, he put forth another poem — a dramatic tale — 
" Theodric," in which the public were sadly disappointed. After this, he 
wrote no poem of any considerable length.^ 

* But the fault of the work is, it does not give the best specimens of the 
various authors, and it is for this reason, I presume, that another edition was 
not called for till 1841 , when it was reprinted in one large octavo volume. The 
ground had been trodden by others before, who mado the best selections from 
their authors. Campbell wished not to tread in their track, and hence the fail- 
ure of the book. As was well said by a writer in "Frazer's Magazine" for 
November, 1844, '• No one will go to a book for specimens of a poet in his 
second-best manner, or his third-rate mood. We want the cream of a poet, 
not the skimmed milk of his genius." 

•^ " What a pity it is," said Sir Walter Scott to Washington Irving, <«that 

39 



450 CAMPBELL. [VICTORIA 

In 1827, he was elected Lord Rector of his own mother University at 
Glasgow by the free and unanimous choice of the students.' On the 9ih 
of May, the next year, he lost his amiable and excellent wife, which was a 
severe blow to him. In 1830, he threw up the editorship of the "New 
Monthly," and, lending his name to another publisher, started the "Metro- 
politan Magazine," in which he was afterwards aided by his poetical friend 
Thomas Moore. ^ In ] 834, he published, in two octavo volumes, the " Life 
of Mrs. Siddons," which added but little to his reputation.^ His subse- 
quent publications were a "Life of Shakspeare," "The Life and Times 
of Petrarch," " Frederick the Great, and his Court and Times," and some 
smaller poems. He left London for Boulogne, on account of his health, in 
1843, and he resided in that city, with his niece as his companion, till the 
day of his death, which took place on the 15ih of June, 1844. On the 
third of the next month, his remains were deposited in the "Poet's Cor- 
ner" in Westminster Abbey, over against the monument to Shakspeare. 
He had two sons; the younger died at an early age — while the elder, a 
helpless imbecile from his birth, survived the father.'* 

No poet of the nineteenth century has, in my estimation, a higher rank 
than Thomas Campbell; no one is more universally admired, and no one 

Campbell does not write more and oftener^ and give full sweep to his genius ! 
He has wings that would bear him to the skies, and he does, now and then, 
spread them grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his perch, as if he 
was afraid to launch away. The fact is, Campbell is in a manner a bugbear 
to himself; the brightness' of his early success is a detriment to all his alter 
efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that liis own fame casts before him.^^ 

' " It was deep snow," writes Allan Cunningham, "when he reached the 
college-green ; the students were drawn up ia. parties, pelting one another ; the 
poet ran into the ranks, threw several snowballs with unerring aim, then, sum- 
moning the scholars around him in the hall, delivered a speech replete with 
philosophy and eloquence. It is needless to say how this was welcomed." 

■2 The after history of the magazine is well known ; the tw^o poets retired, 
and Marryat, with his " Peter Simple," gave it an extent of reputation it had 
not before. 

' The "Quarterly Review" called it "an abuse of biography," and its 
writer " the worst theatrical historian we ever read." 

'' Read an "Essay on the Genius and Character of Campbell, by George 
GilfiUan;" also the "Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell, by William Bealtie, 
M. D. ;" and an excellent review of this w^ork in the "Gentleman's Maga- 
zine" for February, 1849. At the close of the second volume of Dr. Beat- 
tie's work, the author, his devoted friend who attended him to the last, 
thus feelingly and beautifully writes : "At a quarter past four in the afternoon 
our beloved poet expired, without a struggle. Though quite prepared, as I 
thought, for the crisis, yet I confess I was so bewildered, at the moment of 
transition, that, when I saw the head drop lifeless upon the chest, Icouldhardlj'- 
satisfy my mind that I was standing in the same chamber, and at the bedside 
of Thomas Campbell. There lay the breathless form of him who had im- 
pressed all sensitive hearts with the magic influence of his genius — the hal- 
lowed glow of his poetry — the steady warmth of his patriotism — the unwearied 
labors of his philanthropy; the man whom I had seen under many varieties 
of circumstance — in public, the ob.served of all observer.- — in private, the de- 
light of his circle; the pride of his country — the friend of humanity ; now fol- 
lowed with acclamations — now vi.-ited w^ith sorrows; i^truggling with diffi- 
culties, or soured with disappointments ; then, striving to i^eek repo: e in exile — 
and here finding it in death." 



1837.] CAMPBELL. 451 

will be longer remembered. His exquisite harmony of versification, his 
occasional sublimity, his enthusiasm, his pathetic tenderness, his richness 
of natural description, together with his elevation and purity of moral sen- 
timent, all combine to make him a classic secure of his immortality — ■ 
standing upon the same sholf with Goldsmith, Thomson., and Gray, 



THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD. 

Lo! at the coucb where infant beauty sleepi^, 
Her silent watch the mournfal niotber keeps; 
Siie, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, 
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, 
And weaves a song of melancholy joy — 
"Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy- 
No lingering hour of sorrow shall bo thine : 
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; 
Bright as his manly sire the son shall be 
In form -and soul; but, ah! more blest than he! 
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, 
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past — 
With many a smile my solitude repay. 
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. 

"And say, when suramon'd from the world and thee, 
I lay my head beneath the willow tree, 
Wilt (hou^ sweet mourner! at my stone appear, 
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near? 
Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed 
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed^ 
With aching temples on thy hand reclined, 
Muse on the last farewell I leave beliind, 
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low^ 
And think on all my love, and all my woe?" 

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye 
Can look regard, or brighten in reply 5 
But when the clierub lip hath learnt to claim 
A mother's ear by that endearing name; 
Soon as the playful innocent can prove 
A tear of pity, or a smile of love, 
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, 
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer, 
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear; 
How fondly looks admiring Hopk the while. 
At every artless tear, and every smile! 
How glows the joyous parent to descry 
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy! 

Pleasures of Hope. 



452 CAMPBELL. [VICTORIA 



THE ADVANCEMENT OF SOCIETY. 

Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime; 
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore. 
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along, 
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song, 
Where human fiends on midnight errands v/alk, 
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, 
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray. 
And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day. 
Each wandering genius of the lonely glen 
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men^ 
And silent watch, on woodland heights around^ 
The village curfew as it tolls profound. 

In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done. 
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, 
Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, 
Wild Obi flies — the veil is rent in twain. 

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam.. 
Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home; 
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, 
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, 
Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there, 
And light the dreadful features of despair — 
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load. 
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd ! 
Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns. 
And, as the slave departs, the man returns. 



The sxtine. 



MAN MADE TO BE FREE. 

And say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan 
Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man. 
When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame. 
That embryo spirit, yet without a name — 
That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands 
Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands 1 
Who, sternly marking on his native soil 
The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, 
Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see 
Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free! 

Yet, yet, degraded men ! th' expected day, 
That breaks your bitter cup, is far away ; 
Trade, wealth, and fashion ask you still to bleed^ 
And holy men give Scripture for the deed ; 



CAMPBELL. 453 

Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save 
A wretcli, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! 

Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand 
Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trenibhng land, 
When life sprang startHng at thy plastic call, 
Endless her forms, and man the lord of all ! 
Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee 
To wear eternal chains and bow the kneel 
Was man ordain'd the slave of man to tod, 
Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the sod; 
Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance \vith his gold? 
No!— Nature stamp'd us in a heavenly mould! 
She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, 
Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge! 
No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, 
To call upon his country's name, and weep. ^^^^ ^^^^ 



PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LOVE. 

Thy fair hand, enamor'd Fancy! gleans 

The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes; 

Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought 

Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, 

Where love and lore may claim alternate liours, 

With Peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers ! 

Remote from busy Life's bewilderVl way. 

O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway! 

Free on the sunny slope or winding shore. 

With hermit steps to wander and adore ! 

There shall he love, when genial morn appears, 

Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears. 

To watch the brightening roses of the sky, 

And muse on Nature with a poet's eye ! 

And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep, 

The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep. 

When flxiry harps th' Hesperian planet hail, 

And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale. 

His path shall be where streamy mountains swell 

Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell. 



^ a Mr Campbell has earned the title of the Bard of Liberty as well as of 
Hone Freedom is his favorite watchword, and to ban a tyrant is his^dear de- 
lio-ht ' God forbid it should ever be otherwise with an English poet 
' = Qtcarterhj Review, vol. Ivu. p. 359. 

uit is a proud thing indeed for England, for poetry, -"^ for mankmd tl^ 
all the illustrious poets of the pres;ent day-Byron, Moore, Rogei^sCam^^^^^^^^ 
-.ve- distino-ui^hed bv their zea for freedom, while those who have desertea 
flat mlnlv and holl cause have from that hour felt their inspiration with- 
dr"hlir harp-strings broken, and the fire quenched in their censers." 

Edinburgh Review, vol. xh. p. 281. 

.89* 



454 CAMPBELL. [victoria 

Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, 
Mingling with darker tints the living green; 
No circling hills bis ravish'd eye to bound, 
Heaven, Earth, and Ocean blazing all around. 

The moon is up — the watch-tower dimly burns — ■ 
And down the vale bis sober step returns; 
But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey 
The still sweet fall of music far away; 
And oft he lingers from his home awhile 
To watch the dying notes! and start, and smile? 

Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep 
The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep? 
Though boundless snows the wither'd. heath deform, 
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, 
Yet shall the smile of social love repay. 
With mental light, the melancholy day! • 

And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er. 
The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore, 
How bright the fagots in his little hall 
Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall ! 

The same. 



HOPE BEYOND THE GRAVE. 

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn, 
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! 
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! 
What though each spark of earth -torn rapture fly 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eternal day — 
Then, then, the triumi^h and the trance begin. 
And all the phoenix spirit burns within! ~ 

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, 
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! 
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun ! 
Where Time's far wandering tide has never run. 
From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears, 
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud. 
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust. 
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust : 
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, 
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss. 
And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume 
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; 



1837.] CAMPBELL. 455 

Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul! 
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, 
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close, 
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze. 
The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze ; 
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; 
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail 
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still 
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill! 
» * « ♦ * 

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade — 
When all the sister planets have decay'd ; 
When, wrapt in fire, the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below, 
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 

The same. 



THE SOLDIER S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. 
By the wolf scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 

"Twas Autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn ; 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay: 



456 CAMPBELL. [VICTORIA 

But sorrow retiinrd with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



THE LAST MAN. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its Immortality! 

I saw a vision in my sleep, 

That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time! 
I saw the last of human mould, 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime! 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 

The Earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man! 
Some had expired in fight — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands; 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high. 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 

As if a storm pass'd by, 
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis Mercy bids thee go. 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears. 

That shall no longer flow. 

What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 

The vassals of his will ? 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim discrowned king of day : 

For all these trophied arts 
And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 

Entail'd on human hearts. 

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 
Upon the stage of men, 



1837.] CAMPBELL. 457 

Nor willi thy rising beams recall 

Life's trageely again. 
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe j 
Stretch 'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death' — • 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall— 
The majesty of darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to him 

Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By Him recall'd to breath, 
Who captive led captivity, 
Who robb'd the grave of Victory — • 

And took the sting from Death ! 

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up, 

On Nature's awful waste, 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On Earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his Immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God! 



CHAUCER AND WINDSOR. 

Long shalt thou flourish, Windsor! bodying forth 
Chivalric times, and long shall live around 

Thy Castle the old oaks of British birth, 

Whose gnarled roots, tenacious and profound. 
As with a lion's talons grasp the ground. 

But should thy towers in ivied ruin rot. 

There's one, thine inmate once, whose strain renown'd 

Would interdict thy name to be forgot; 

For Chaucer loved thy bow'rs and trode this very spot. 



458 MITCHELL. [VICTORIA 

Chaucer! our Helicon's first fountain-stream, 

Our morning star of song — that led the way 
To welcome the long after coming beam 

Of Spenser's light and Shakspeare's perfect day. 

Old England's fathers live in Chaucer's lay, 
As if they ne'er had died. He group 'd and drew 

Their likeness with a spirit of life so gay, 
That still they live and breathe in Fancy's view, 
Fresh beings fraught with truth's imperishable hue. 



THE BEECH TREE S PETITION. 

O leave this barren spot to me ! 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! 
Though bush or flow'ret never grow 
My dark unwarming shade below ; 
Nor summer bud perfume the dew 
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ! 
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born. 
My green and glossy leaves adorn ; 
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive ; 
Yet leave this barren spot to me : 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! 

Thrice twenty summers I have seen 
The sky grow bright, the forest green ; 
And many a wintry wind have stood 
In bloomless, fruitless solitude. 
Since childhood in my pleasant bower 
First spent its sweet and sportive hour, 
Since youthful lovers in my shade 
Their vows of truth and rapture made ; 
And on my trunk's surviving frame 
Carved many a long-forgotten name. 
Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound, 
First breathed upon this sacred ground; 
By all that Love has whisper'd here. 
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear ; 
As Love's own altar honor me : 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 



THOMAS MITCHELL, 1783-1845. 

Thomas Mitchell, so distinguished in the walks of Greek literature, 
was the son of Alexander Mitchell, a riding-master of London, and was 



1837.] MITCHELL. 459 

born in that city, on the 30th of May, 1783. At the age of seven, he enter(?d 
the school of Christ's Hospital, where he enjoyed the benefit of the instruc- 
tion of the Rev. James Bowyer and Rev. Dr. Trollope, and in 1802 he 
entered Pembroke College, Cambridge. On taking his degree in 1806, 
he was presented by the trustees with a silver cup, of the value of thirty 
guineas, for his distinguished classical attainments. In 1809, he obtained 
what is called an " ope7i fellowship," the more honorable as it is open to any 
competitors. After a term of years, he was obliged, by the statutes of the 
college, to vacate his fellowship. He then devoted his learning to private 
tuition and the press, commencing, in 1813, the series of interesting, in- 
structive, and learned essays, in the " Quarterly Review," ' on Aristophanes 
and Athenian manners, which led to his own translation, in verse, of the 
Greek Comedian, which appeared in two volumes in 1820 and J 822. For 
the last twenty years of his life, Mr. Mitchell, having never married, re- 
sided with his relations in the county of Oxford, and employed his time 
in superintending the works issued from the " Clarendon Press," Oxford, 
and in editing editions of Aristophanes and Sophocles. He Had commenced 
a new undertaking in Grecian literature, when he died suddenly from a 
fit of apoplexy, May 4, 1845. 

England has produced few Greek scholars that can compare with Mr. 
Mitchell for extensive erudition and delicate and discriminating taste. 
The Grecian drama was his peculiar delight, and he probably had a more 
correct appreciation of its beauties and its powers than any living contem- 
porary. His "Preliminary Discourse," of one hundred and sixty pages, 
to the " Comedies of Aristophanes," I have always considered as one of 
the choicest and most elegant pieces of literary criticism in the English 
language, and from it I have made the two following selections: — 



SOCRATES. 

The name of Socrates is known to most readers only by the 
page of history, where nothing appears in its undress ; and even 
in persons tolerably conversant with the learned languages, the 
knowledge of this singular man is often confined to that beautiful 
little work of Xenophon, which, indeed, deserves the classical 
appellation of '' golden,'^ and to that immortal trilogy of Plato, 
which has been embalmed by the tears^ of all ages. When we 
read the admirable system of ethics (some few blots excepted) 

* His articles, in the " Quarterly Review," are No. xvii. article 9 ; xlii. 1 ; 
xliii. 9 ; xlv. 12; xlviii. 8; liv. 6; lviii.2; Ixvi. 3; Ixxxviii. 3. 

2 One of the greatest, wisest, and best men of antiquity, and whose little 
infirmities only made him the more amiable, contesses that he never read the 
Phs-don without an agony of tears. Quid dicam de Socrate ? cujus morti 
zVlachrymare soleo Platonem legens. 

Cic. de Nat. Deor. lib. viii. 



460 MITCHELL. [VICTORIA 

which is laid open in the former, and the simple narrations which 
conduct the author of them to the close of his mortal career in 
the latter, it is not simply a burst of admiration, or grief, or 
horror, which breaks from us, but a union of all three, so pro- 
found and so involved, that the mind must be strong indeed which 
can prevent the feelings, for a time, from mastering the judgment. 
Few readers, it is believed, even make the attempt; the prison-scene 
is an agony of suffering to which the mind gives way that it may 
not be torn by opposing it ; Socrates drinking the poison shocks 
the imagination — we feel, such is the merit of the sufferer, or 
such the consummate skill of his biographer, as if a sin had been 
committed against human nature — we think for a moment that a 
chasm has been left in society which can never again be filled up, 
and we feel as if we could stop nature herself in her course to 
protest against a transaction, the guilt of which seems to belong 
to all ages. It is an invidious task to interrupt the current of 
such feelings, even if there be anything illegitimate in their 
source; fortunately for the honor of our species, these feelings 
are mostly right in their application, and what deductions are 
made can be supplied from higher sources ; we should spurn our- 
selves if we otherwise attempted to do them away. 

That Socrates could have so commanded the spirits of two men 
so gifted as Xenophon and Plato, that they may be said to have 
devoted their lives to the delineation of his character and senti- 
ments, is a proof of ascendency which gives us the most astonish- 
ing opinion of his powers. It cannot, however, be sufficiently 
regretted that he did not take the task upon himself. The most 
interesting book, perhaps, that ever could have been written 
would have been that which traced gradually and minutely the 
progress of thought in the mind of Socrates, and through what 
changes and circumstances he arrived at that system of opinions 
which, if they sometimes remind us of what unassisted nature 
must be, more often recal to us " how glorious a piece of work 
man is ! how noble in reason ! how infinite in faculties ! in appre- 
hension how like a god V This, however, has not been done, and 
Socrates must now be taken as we find him : by thus leaving the 
task to others, he has, perhaps, gained something in reputation 
on the score of intellect, but it can neither be concealed nor denied 
that, on the side of manners and morals, he has lost much both 
in purity and dignity. 



1837.] MITCHELL. 461 



PLATO. 

A grasp and a capacity of mind the most astonishing — a spirit 
inquisitive and scrutinizing — a subtlety painfully acute — a com- 
prehensiveness which could embrace with equal ease the smallest 
and most lofty knowledge — a suppleness which, with almost in- 
credible facility, could descend from the deepest abstraction to 
the commonest topics of the world — a temper which, in the heat 
of disputation, could preserve the most perfect self-possession, 
and throw into disquisitions, which must have been the result of 
long study, solitude, and profound meditation, all the graces of 
society and the qualifying embellishments of the most perfect 
good-breeding — these are qualities which seem to have been 
inherent in the mind of Plato, and with these he has accordingly 
endowed the person whom he in general selected for the organ of 
conveying their joint sentiments to the world. In this union of 
opposite qualities, Plato may be ^id to resemble the Homeric 
chain of gold — if one end rested on earth, the other had its ter- 
mination in heaven. 

A residence in courts (and the court of the Dionysii seems to 
have been no ordinary one) adds to his attractions some of those 
charms so rarely to be found in republican writers ; that tone of 
good society which sifts without exhausting, and plays upon the 
surface, as if to take breath from having sounded the bottom ; 
that correctness of observation which, acting rather as the annalist 
than the spy in society, gives to raillery itself the character of 
wit, and to scandal a half tone of biography ; that tact, rapid as 
light and as unerring as instinct, which, charitable as it may be 
to unassuming and natural manners, seizes instantly upon pre- 
tension and lays it bare with pitiless severity; that delicate intui- 
tion which, in manners, in conversation, and in authorship, watches 
with jealousy that nice point where, self-commendation beginning, 
the commendation of others is sure to cease : all this may be seen 
in Plato, and if less perfectly than in some modern writers, it was 
only because that sex, in whose society it is best learnt, had not 
yet been able to throw oif the shackles of democratical tyranny, 
or to attain the accomplishments of a liberal education, without 
forfeiting what ought to be dearer to them tlian any accomplish- 
ments. At once a geometrician and a poet, the understanding 
and the fancy find in Plato a purveyor equally bountiful ; for the 
one he supplies solid food, and he captivates the other by the most 
beautiful fables and tales. To his treasures the east and the south 
40 % 



462 HOOD. [victoria 

equally contributed; he pours forth the one in all the pomp of 
oriental richness and profusion, with the lavish hand of youthful 
extravagance, and his intercourse with Egypt enables him to cast 
over his writings the imposing reserve of that mysterious eld who 
has surrounded the impotence of her old age with a solemn rever- 
ence, by affecting the possession of treasures of which she mys- 
teriously withholds the key. To Plato the past, the present, 
and the future seem alike; he has amassed in himself all the 
knowledge of the first, he paints the present to the life, and, by some 
wonderful instinct, he has given dark hints, as if the most important 
events which were to happen after his time had not been wholly 
hidden from his sight. Less scientific in the arrangement of his 
materials than his great . scholar, the Stagirite, he has infinitely 
more variety, more spirit, more beauty, evincing, at every step, 
that it was in his own choice to become the most profound of philo- 
sophers, the most pointed of satirists, the greatest of orators, or 
the most sublime of poets, or, by a skilful combination of all, to 
form such a character as the world had never yet seen, nor was 
ever after to witness. Nor i^he language in which his thoughts 
are conveyed less remarkable than the thoughts themselves. In 
his more elevated passages, he rises, like his own Prometheus, to 
heaven, and brings down from thence the noblest of all thefts — 
Wisdom with Fire : but, in general, calm, pure, and unaffected, his 
style flows like a stream which gurgles its own music as it runs ; 
and his works rise, like the great ftibric of Grecian literature, of 
which they are the best model, in calm and noiseless majesty. 



THOMAS HOOD, 1798—1845. 

Few writers of this century have done more for humanity than the 
comic poet and quaint humorist, Thomas Hood. He was the son of a 
bookseller in London, and born in the year 1798. He was educated for 
the counting-house, and, at an early age, was placed under the charge of a 
city merchant. But the delicate state of his health soon put an end to his 
mercantile career, and he was sent to Dundee, to reside with some relatives. 
There he evinced his taste for letters, and made his first literary venture 
in the local journals. On the re-establishment of bis health, he returned to 
London, and was apprenticed to an uncle, an engraver. But though he 
always retained his early love for the art, and had much facility in drawing, 
as the many quaint illus'rutions to his works testify, his tendencies were 



1837.] HOOD. - 468 

literary, and in 182] he became a sort of sub-editor of the " London 
Magazine." When this work stopped, he wrote for various periodicals, 
and was for some time editor of the " New Monthly Magazine." " His 
life was one of incessant exertion, embittered by ill health and all the 
disquiets and uncertainties incidental to authorship. When almost 
prostrated by disease, the government stepped in to relieve him with a small 
pension — one hundred pounds; and, after his premature death, on the 3d 
of May, 1845, his literary friends contributed liberally towards the support 
of his widow and family." 

Mr. Hood's productions are in various styles and forms. His first work, 
" Whims and Oddities," attained to great popularity. " He afterwards 
tried a series of ' National Tales,' but his prose was less attractive than 
his verse. A regular novel, ' Tylney Hall,' was a more decided failure. 
In poetry he made a great advance. ' The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies' 
is a rich imaginative work, superior to his other productions. As editor 
of the ' Comic Annual,' and also of some of the literary annuals, Mr. 
Hood increased his reputation for sportive humor and poetical fancy ; and 
he continued the same vein in his ' Up the Rhine' — a satire on the ab- 
surdities of English travellers. In 1843 he issued two volumes of ' Whim- 
sicalities, a Periodical Gathering,' collected chiefly from the ' New Monthly 
Magazine.' His last production of any importance was the ' Song of the 
Shirt,' which first appeared in ' Punch,' and was as admirable in spirit as 
in composition. This striking picture of the miseries of the poor London 
sempstresses struck home to the heart, and aroused the benevolent feelings 
of the public. In most of Hood's works, even in his puns and levities, 
there is a ' spirit of good' directed to some kindly or philanthropic object. 
He had serious and mournful jests, which were the more eflfective from 
their strange and unexpected combinations. Those who came to laugh at 
folly remained to sympathize with want and suffering.'" 



A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 

Thou happy, happy elf! 
(But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) — 

Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear) — 

Thou merry, laughing sprite! 

With spirits feather light, 
Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin — 
(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) 

Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 
(The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) 

Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why. Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 

* Chambers' Cyc. 



464 HOOD. [victoria 

Thou imp of mirth and joy! 
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
Thou idol of thy parents — (Stop the boy ! 

There goes my ink 1) 

Thou cherub — but of earth ; 
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight p)ale, 

In harmless sport and mirth, 
(The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !) 

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom in the world that blows, 

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) 

Thy father's pride and hope ! 
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) 
With pure heart newly stamp'd from nature's mint, 

(Where did he learn that squint?) 

Thou young domestic love ! 
(He'll have that jug off with another shove !) 

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! 

(Are those torn clothes his best ?) 

Little epitome of man ! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) 
Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 

(He's got a knife!) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, 

Play on, play on, 

My elfin John ! 

Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle down, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. 

With many a lamb-like frisk, 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown.) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) 
Balmy, and breathing music like the south, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, 
(I wish that window had an iron bar !) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove — 
(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he's sent above !) 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born — 



1837.] HOOD. 465 

The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn : 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day; 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember [ 

Tire roses — red. and white ; 
The violets and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday — 

The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing; 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing : 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now. 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 
It was a childish ignorance. 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther ofl" from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" 

" Work ! work ! work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work ! 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's oh! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If THIS is Christian work ! 

40* 



466 HOOD. [VICTORIA 

" Work — work — work ! 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work — work — work ! 

Till the eyes are heavy and dini ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in my dream ! 

" Oh ! men with sisters dear ! 

Oh! men with mothers and wives! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A SHROUD as well as a shirt! 

" But why do I talk of death, 

That phantom of grisly bone? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own. 

Because of the fast I keep : 
Oh God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags : 
A shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime ; 
Work — work — work ! 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and band. 
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand ! 

" Work — work — work. 

In the dull December light ; 
And work — work — work ! 

When the weather is warm and bright: 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

" Oh ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ; 



HOOD. 467 



With the sky above my head, 
And the grass beneath my feet: 

For only one short hour 
To feel as I used to feel, 

Before I knew the woes of want, 
And the walk that costs a meal! 

Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope. 

But only time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart — 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread ; 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch- 
Would that its tone could reach the rich ! 

She sung this " Song of the Shirt !" 



THE lady's dream. 

The lady lay in her bed. 

Her couch so warm and soft, 
But her sleep was restless and broken still ; 

For, turning oft and oft 
From side to side, she muttered and moan'd, 

And toss'd her arms aloft. 

At last she started up. 

And gazed on the vacant air 
With a look of awe, as if she saw 

Some dreadful phantom there — 
And then in the pillow she buried her face 

From visions ill to bear. 

The very curtain shook. 

Her terror was so extreme. 
And the light that fell on the broidered quilt 

Kept a tremulous gleam ; 
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried, 

" Oh me ! that awful dream ! 

' That weary, weary walk, 

In the churchyard's dismal ground! 
And those horrible things, with shady wings, 
That came and flitted round — 



468 HOOD. [VICTORIA 

Death, death, and nothing but death, 
In every sight and sound ! 

" And oh ! those maidens young, 

Who wrought in that dreary room. 
With figures drooping and spectres thin, 

And cheeks without a bloom ; — 
And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride 

We haste to an early tomb !' 

" For the pomp and pleasures of pri(le. 

We toil like the African slaves, 
And only to earn a home, at last, 

Where yonder cypress waves ; — 
And then it pointed — I never saw 

A ground so full of graves ! 

"And still the coffins came. 

With their sorrowful trains and slow ; 
Coffin after coffin still, 

A sad and sickening show ; 
From grief exempt, I never had dreamt 

Of such a world of wo ! 

" Of the hearts that daily break. 

Of the tears that hourly fall. 
Of the many, many troubles of life, 

That grieve this earthly ball — 
Disease and Hunger, Pain and Want, 

But now I dream of them all ! 

" For the blind and the cripple were there, 

And the babe that pined for bread. 
And the houseless man, and the widow poor 

Who begged — to bury the dead ! 
The naked, alas, that I might have clad, 

The famished I might have fed! 

" The sorrow I might have soothed, 

And the unregarded tears ! 
For many a thronging shape was there. 

From long forgotten years — 
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, 

Who raised my childish fears! 

" Each pleading look, that, long ago, 

I scanned with a heedless eye ; 
Each face was gazing as plainly there 

As when I passed it by ; 
Woe, woe for me if the past should be 

Thus present when I die ! 

"No need of sulphurous lake, 
No need of fiery coal. 
But only that crowed of humankind 
Who wanted pity and dole — 



1837.] . -HOOD. 469 

In everlasting retrospect — 
Will wring my sinful soul ! 

*' Alas ! I have walked tlirongh life 
Too heedless where I trod ; 
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm, 

And fill the burial sod — 
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 
Not unmarked of God ! 

" I drank the richest draughts, 

And ate whatever is good — 
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit, 

Supplied my hungry mood ; 
But I never remembered the wretched ones 

That starve for want of food ! 

"I dressed as the nobles dress, 

In cloth of silver and gold, 
With silk, and satin, and costly furs, 

In many an ample fold ; 
But I never remembered the naked limbs 

That froze with winter's cold. 

" The wounds I might have healed! 

The human sorrow and smart! 
And yet it never was in my soul 

To play so ill a part : 
But evil is wrought by want of thought 

As well as want of heart!" 

She clasped her fervent hands, 

And the tears began to stream ; 
Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, 

Remorse was so extreme ; 
And yet, oh yet, that many a dame 

Would dream the Lady's Dream ! 

The following humorous " punning ballad" is so characteristic of Hood, 
that I must insert it. It is the story of 



" FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. ' 

Young Ben he was a nice young man, 

A carpenter by trade; 
And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 

Who was a lady's maid. 

But, as they fetched a walk one day, 

They met a press-gang crew 5 
And Sally she did faint away, 

Whilst Ben he was brought to. 

The boatswain swore, with wicked words. 
Enough to shock a saint, 




470 ^^:^^^i;:if?m^.. Hool^a^ ^ ..;- ,... [victoria 

That, though she did seern'mlT^fit*, * - " - . * * ""^^^ 

'Twas nothing but a feint. 

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, 
He'll be as good as me ; 
For, when your swain is in our boat, 
A boatswain he will be." 

So, when they'd made their game of her. 

And taken off her elf, 
She roused, and found she only was 

A-coming to herself. 

" And is he gone, and is he gone ?" 
She cried, and wept outright ; 
" Then I will to the water-side, 
And see him out of sight." 

A waterman came up to her — 

" Now, young woman," said he, 
" If you weep on so, you will make 

Eye-water in the sea." 

"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben, 
To sail with old Ben-bow ;" 
And her woe begun to run afresh, 
As if she had said " Gee woe !" 

Says he, " They've only taken him 

To the tender-ship you see;" 
"The tender ship !" cried Sally Brown — 

" What a hard-ship that must be ! 

" Oh ! ^vould I were a mermaid now, 
For then I'd follow him ; 
But oh ! I'm not a fish- woman, 
And so I cannot swim. 

" Alas ! I was not born beneath 
The Virgin and the Scales — 
So I must curse my cruel stars, 
And walk about in W^ales." 

Now Ben had sailed to many a place 

That's underneath the world ; 
But in two years the ship came home, 

And all her sails were furled. 

But when he called on Sally Brown, 

To see how she got on. 
He found she'd got another Ben, 

Whose Christian name was John. 

"Oh Sally Brown, oh Sally Brown, 
How could you serve me so ! ■ 
I've met with many a breeze before, 
But never such a blov/ !" 




471 



Then, reaciing on his 'bacco-box, 

He heaved a lieavy sigh, 
And then began to eye his pipe, 

And then to pipe his eye. 

And then he tried to sing " All's Well," 
But could not, though he tried ; 

His head was turned, and so he chewed 
His pigtail till he died. 

His death, which happened in his berth. 

At forty odd befell: 
They went and told the sexton, and 

The sexton tolled the bell!" 



THE POOR LABORER. 

Some time since a strong inward impulse moved me to paint 
the destitution of an overtasked class of females, who work, work, 
work, for wages almost nominal. But deplorable as is their 
condition in the low deep, there is, it seems, a lower still — below 
that gloomy gulf, a darker region of human misery — beneath that 
purgatory, a hell — resounding with more doleful wailings and a 
sharper outcry — the voice of famishing wretches, pleading vainly 
for work ! work ! work !— imploring as a blessing what was laid 
upon man as a curse — the labor that wrings sweat from the brow, 
and bread from the soil ! 

As a matter of conscience, that wail touches me not. As my 
works testify, I am of the working class myself, and, in my hum- 
ble sphere, furnish employment for many hands, including paper- 
makers, draughtsmen, engravers, compositors, pressmen, binders, 
folders, and stitchers — and critics — all receiving a fair day's 
wages for a fair day's work. My gains couseouently are limited 
— not nearly so enormous as have been realizecTupon shirts, slops, 
shawls, &c. — curiously illustrating how a man or woman might 
be " clothed with curses as with a garment.'^ My fortune may 
be expressed without a long row of those ciphers — those O's at 
once significant of hundreds of thousands of pounds, and as many 
ejaculations of pain and sorrow from dependent slaves. My 
wealth might all be hoarded, if I were miserly, in a gallipot or a 
tin snuff-box.. My riches would hardly allow me a roll in them, 
even if turned into the new copper mites. But then, thank Grod, 
no reproach clings to my coin. No tears or blood clog the meshes ; 
no hair, plucked in desperation, is knitted with the silk of my 
lean purse. No consumptive sempstress can point at me her 




472 

bony forefinger, and say, 

am become this living skeleton I" or hold up to me her fatal 
needle, as one through the eye of which the scriptural camel must 
pass ere I may hope to enter heaven. No withered workwoman, 
shaking at me her dripping suicidal locks, can cry, in a piercing 
voice, " For thee, and for six poor pence, I embroidered eighty 
flowers on this veil" — literally a veil of tears. No famishing 
laborer, his joints racked with toil, holds out to me in the palm 
of his broad hard hand seven miserable shillings, and mutters, 
" For these, and a parish loaf, for six long days, from dawn till 
dusk, through hot and cold, through wet and dry, I tilled thy 
land !'' My short sleeps are peaceful ; my dreams untroubled. 
No ghastly phantoms with reproachful faces, and silence more 
terrible than speech, haunt my quiet pillow. No victims of slow 
murder, ushered by the avenging fiends, beset my couch, and 
make awful appointments with me to meet at the Divine bar on 
the day of judgment. No deformed human creatures — men, 
women, and children, smirched black as negroes, transfigured 
suddenly, as demons of the pit — clutch at my heels to drag me 
down, down, down, an unfathomable shaft, into a gaping Tartarus. 
And if, sometimes, in waking visions I see throngs of little faces, 
with features preternaturally sharp, and wrinkled brows, and dull, 
seared orbs — grouped with pitying clusters of the young-eyed 
cherubim — not for me, thank Heaven ! did those crippled children 
become prematurely old, and precociously evaporate, like so much 
steam power, the " dew of their youth. '^ 

To me — speaking from my heart, and recording my deliberate 
opinions on a material that, frail as it is, will long outlast my own 
fabric — there is something deeply affecting in the spectacle of a 
young man, in the prime of health and vigor, offering himself a 
voluntary slave in the labor-market without a purchaser — eagerly 
profiering to bart^ the use of his body, the day-long exertion of 
his strength, the wear and tear of flesh and blood, bone and 
muscle, for the common necessaries of life — earnestly craving for 
bread on the penal conditions prescribed by his Creator, and in 
vain, in vain ! Well for those who enjoy each blessing of earth 
that there are volunteers to work out the curse ! Well for the 
drones of the social hive that there are bees of so industrious a 
turn, willing for an infinitesimal share of the honey to undertake 
the labor of its fabrication ! 



1837.] SMITH. ^ 473 



SYDNEY SMITH, 1769-1845. 

This most accomplished scholar and very original writer was born at 
Woodford, near London, in the year 1769. He was educated at Winchester 
College, and thence elected to New College, Oxford, where he obtained a 
fellowship. He was ordained to a curacy in Wiltshire, and afterwards, in 
1801, was among the foremost of the projectors of the "Edinburgh Re- 
view." But it is altogether better that he should speak for himself, and his 
subsequent movements are thus most agreeably noticed in the preface to 
the recent edition of his collected works: — 



FOUNDATION OF THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. 

When first I went into the church, I had a curacy in the 
middle of Salisbury Plain. The squire of the parish took a fancy 
to me, and requested me to go with his son to reside at the Uni- 
versity of Weimar : before we could get there, Germany became 
the seat of war, and in stress of politics we put into Edinburgh, 
where I remained five years. The principles of the French Re- 
volution were then fully afloat, and it is impossible to conceive a 
more violent and agitated state of society. Among the first per- 
sons with whom I became acquainted were Lord Jeff'rey, Lord 
Murray (late Lord Advocate for Scotland), and Lord Brougham; 
all of them maintaining opinions upon political subjects a little 
too liberal for the dynasty of Dundas, then exercising supreme 
power over the northern division of the island. 

One day we happened to meet in the eighth or ninth story or 
flat in Buccleugh-place, the elevated residence of the then Mr. 
Jefirey. I proposed that we should set up a review; this was 
acceded to with acclamation. I was appointed editor, and re- 
mained long enough in Edinburgh to edit the first number of the 
*' Edinburgh Review." The motto I proposed for the Review was, 

"Tenui musam meditamur avend.'^ 
"We cultivate literature upon a little oatmeal," 

But this was too near the truth to be admitted, and so we took 
our present grave motto from Puhlius Syrus, of whom none of 
us had, I am sure, ever read a single line ; and so began what has 
since turned out to be a very important and able journal. When 
I left Edinburgh, it fell into the stronger hands of Lord Jefirey 
and Lord Brougham, and reached the highest point of popularity 
41 



474 SMITH. [victoria 

and success. I contributed from England many articles, which I 
have been foolish enough to collect and publish with some other 
tracts written by me. 

To appreciate the value of the ^^ Edinburgh Review," the state 
of England at the period when that journal began should be had 
in remembrance. The Catholics were not emancipated — the Cor- 
poration and Test Acts were unrepealed — the Game Laws were 
horribly oppressive — Steel Traps and Spring Guns were set all 
over the country — Prisoners tried for their Lives could have no 
Counsel — Lord Eldon and the Court of Chancery pressed heavily 
upon mankind — Libel was punished by the most cruel and vin- 
dictive imprisonments — the principles of Political Economy were 
little understood — the Law of Debt and of Conspiracy were upon 
the worst possible footing — the enormous wickedness of the Slave 
Trade was tolerated — a thousand evils were in existence, which 
the talents of good and able men have since lessened or removed ; 
and these effects have been not a little assisted by the honest bold- 
ness of the "Edinburgh Review." 

I see very little in my reviews to alter or repent of: I always 
endeavored to fight against evil; and what I thought evil then, I 
think evil now. I am heartily glad that all our disqualifying laws 
for religious opinions are abolished, and I see nothing in such 
measures but unmixed good and real increase of strength to our 
Establishment. 

The idea of danger from the extension of the Catholic religion 
in England I utterly deride. The Catholic faith is a misfortune 
to the world, but those whose faith it conscientiously is are quite 
right in professing it boldly, and in promoting it by all means 
which the law allows. A physician does not say "You will be 
well as soon as the bile is got rid of;" but he says, "You will not 
be well imtil after the bile is got rid of." He knows, after the 
cause of the malady is removed, that morbid habits are to be 
changed, weakness to be supported, organs to be called back to their 
proper exercise, subordinate maladies to be watched, secondary and 
vicarious symptoms to be studied. The physician is a wise man — 
but the anserous politician insists, after two hundred years of per- 
secution, and ten of emancipation, that Catholic Ireland should 
be as quiet as Edmonton, or Tooting. 

Again he says — " To set on foot such a journal in such times, to contri- 
bute towards it for many years, to bear patiently the reproach and poverty 
which it caused, and to look back and see that I have nothing to retract, 
and no intemperance and violence to reproach myself with, is a career of 
life which I must think to be extremely fortunate." 

After his removal to London, Mr. Smith continued for many years one 



1837.] SMITH. "^ 475 

of the most active contributors to the "Edinburgh Review," writing on 
Prison Discipline, on the abuses and corrupting influence of the Game Laws, 
on Transportation to Botany Bay, on Toleration, on Methodism, on Edu- 
cation, on Irish Bulls, on Quakerism, on Counsel for Prisoners, on Chim- 
ney-Sweepers, and a variety of other topics. In this great city he became 
an extremely popular preacher, and he had, among his crowded auditory, 
the wealthy, the titled, and the learned. It was thought that his wit, acu- 
men, and learning might be displayed to better advantage elsewhere than 
in the pulpit. He, therefore, became a lecturer on the Belles Lettres at the 
Royal Institution, and his lectures were, of course, attended by "over- 
flowing audiences." 

About this time he wrote the celebrated "Letters of Peter Plymley," 
by which, it is said, he did more than any other man of the day for the 
relief of the Roman Catholics. They are among the most amusing and 
interesting publications of this century. "They are written in the best 
spirit of controversy ; they abound in the happiest illustrations ; and though 
light, lively, and sparkling, these qualities abate nothing of their logical 
force and downright common sense." It would be difficult, however, to 
make an extract from them: they must be read consecutively and as a 
whole. 

" The conversational witticisms of Sydney Smith would fill a jest-book; 
but his character will be estimated by posterity on far higher grounds. 
When his ' quips and cranks' are lost and forgotten, it will be remembered 
that he supported the Roman Catholic claims, and that they were conceded ; 
that he strenuously assailed the game laws, and that they underwent great 
modification ; that he compelled a large portion of the public to acknow- 
ledge the mischief of our penal settlements; that he became the advocate 
of the wretched chimney-sweepers, and their miseries were alleviated; 
that he contended against many of the unjust provisions of the Church Re- 
form Bill, and they were amended; that, whereas, before his time, a man 
accused at the bar of a criminal court might be hanged before he had been 
half heard, now every prisoner has the benefit of a defence by counsel. It 
will further be freely acknowledged that no public writer was more suc- 
cessful than he in denouncing a political humbug, or demolishing a literary 
pretender; that he was, on the whole, an upright and benevolent man, 
and, as the world goes, a disinterested politician; that he had opportunities 
of improving his fortune which he nobly rejected ; and that, having lived 
with uno>stentatious respectability, he died without accumulating wealth. 
His generous presentation of the rectory of Edmonton to the Rev. Mr. 
Tate, when it fell to his gift by the death of that gentleman's father, will 
be fresh in the reader's recollection." 

About three years before his death, Mr. Smith gave the following descrip- 
tion of himself in a letter to a correspondent of the " New York American." 
" I am seventy-four years old ; and, being a canon of St. Paul's, in London, 
and rector of a parish in the country, my time is equally divided between 
town and country. I am living amidst the best society in the metropolis ; 
am at ease in my circumstances ; in tolerable health ; a mild Whig ; a tole- 



476 SMITH. [VICTORIA 

rating churchman; and much-given to talking, laughing, and noise. I 
dine with the rich in London, and physic the poor in the country; passing 
from the sauces of Dives to the sores of Lazarus. I am, upon the whole, 
a happy man ; have found the world an entertaining world ; and am heartily 
thankful to Providence for the part allotted me in it." Mr. Smith died at 
his residence in Green Street, Hyde Park, London, on the 21st of February, 
1845. 



CHARACTERISTICS OF MODERN SERMONS. 

The great object of modern sermons is to hazard nothing: their 
characteristic is decent debility; which alike guards their authors 
from ludicrous errors, and precludes them from striking beauties. 
Every man of sense, in taking up an English sermon, expects to 
find it a tedious essay, full of commonplace morality; and if the 
fulfilment of such expectations be meritorious, the clergy have 
certainly the merit of not disappointing their readers. 

In pointing out the total want of connection between the pri- 
vilege of preaching, and the power of preaching well, we are giving 
no opinion as to whether it might or might not be remedied; but 
merely stating a fact. Pulpit discourses have insensibly dwindled 
from speaking to reading; a practice, of itself, sufficient to stifle 
every germ of eloquence. It is only by the fresh feelings of the 
heart that mankind can be very powerfully affected. What can 
be more ludicrous than an orator delivering stale indignation and 
fervor of a week old; turning over whole pages of violent pas- 
sions, written out in German text; reading the tropes and apos- 
trophes into which he is hurried by the ardor of his mind; and 
so affected at a preconcerted line and page, that he is unable to 
proceed any farther! 



FEMALE EDUCATION. 

A great deal has been said of the original difference of capacity 
between men and women; as if women were more quick, and men 
more judicious — as if women were more remarkable for delicacy 
of association, and men for stronger powers of attention. All this, 
we confess, appears to us very fanciful. That there is a difference 
in the understandings of the men and the women we every day 
meet with, everybody, we suppose, must perceive; but there is 
none surely which may not be accounted for by the difference of 
circumstances in which they have been placed, without referring 



1837.] SMITH. . A:1X 

.te3Rn57''Co^j'ectural (Jilfei^^o. of OM^^^fitonformaMon ojf^mind . As 



long as boys and girls run aboSt itf" tlje dirt, and trundle hoops 
tog^er^^ey are botb precisely alfrke. If yoiAcatch up one-hatf 
cf^tl^se cmitureSj aj^train theml to a-p^ticular set of actifns/t 
and opinions, and the otner hatf t'6'ia/-peTfe6tl^ opposite set, otJt 
cour.se-thejii undi^^andings will'^difi© 'as one -or the other sort or 
j^i^RS^ionf^s-^^^d^this^vpr^thajtl^^ action. There is 

^re^'li-o occasion to go'intKany Sej^er o^m^re abstruse reason- ■* 
ing, ifl order to explain so very simple a*pnenom^on. fTaking it, 
then, for granted, that nature has b^n £06 bouii^iiul of ujlderstand- 
ing to. one sex as the other, it is incumbent op: us to consider -rafc'at 
are the principal objections commonly made' against the "Communi- 
cation of a greater share of knowledge to women than commonly' 
falls to their lot at present : for, though it may be doubtea whether * 
women should learn all that men^earn, the immejlse^isparit*^ "' .;, 
which now exists between their IgifoWledge we s.hould hardly think 1/ 
coiild adm^%f any rational derence. yflt is n^ easy to imagine 
that there can be any just cause why'a wdifian of forty shCTula be 
more ignorant than a boy of twelve years of age. If there be any 
good at aftsjn female ignorance, this (to use a very colloquial 
nhrase) is surely too much of a good thing. 

. It.,is^£aid that the effect of kmifwledge is t(f mak-^women pe- / 
dantic and^ffected; and ]that nothing can be more offensive than 
to see a woman stepping ott^t^bf the natural modesty ofj her sex 
to make .an ostentatious display of her literary attaitrmenls."^ This 
may be true enough; but the%nswer is l?s>Xr-ite' and obw^usThab 
we are almost ashamed to make it. All*" affectation and^^isplay 
•proceed*from the supposition of possessing something better than 
the fe'st of^he world possesses. Nobody is vain*of poss^sing two '^ .""^ 
legs and*"two arms; because that is the precise quantity of either 
sor^of limb which everybody possfesSeS: " \ ' 

■ diffuse kno^dge gGi^raHy-'flsmong wpjjien, and you will atVnce 
cure the conceit which knowledge occasions while it is rar^e. "Va- 
nity atid conceit we shall of course witness in nien andVon^n as 
long..as the worlcCSen^urc^, : but bj miSkiplying me^^lll^miients 
upon which these feelings a^founae^,^^ou increase* the difficulty 
of iadulging th-e-H^nd renSr m-am much more tolerable, by mak- 
ing the^j the Dr^fei^of a "much higher merit. AVh^ learning 
ceases to B^uncSi^dn among *w.ometi, learned 'womliywfii cease 
to be affected. * * h. * ,-* ^ ^ ^ V 

A great many of the lesser a^?^^1^e^^ obscure duties of life ne- 
cessarily devolve upon the female sex. The arrangement of all 
household matters, and the care of children in their early infancy, 
must of course depend upon them. Now, there is a very general 

41* 



9 



i 



478 . SMITH. [victoria 

notion that the' moment jjfj| ^iTt the education of women upon a 
better footing than it is at presents, 'at thft moment there will be 
an end of all domestic econqmy ; and that, if you ^ce luffer 

: wqpien to eat of The tree of knowledge, the. rest of thel^amif^ will 
% -very soon be reduced *to the same kind of aerial and unsatisfactory 
diet. These, and all such opinions, are referaj^le to oije great and 
common cause of error; thqjt man does everythitig, and'that i^ure. 
does nothing; and that everything we see is referable to positive 
institution rather than to original feeling. Can anything, for 
example, jbe more perfectly a,bsurd than to suppose that the care 
and perpetual solicitude which a mother feels for her children, 
depends upon her ignorance of Greek and mathematics; and that 
she woulS. desert an infant for a quadratic equation ? We seem 
to imagine that we can break in pieces the solemn institution of 
nature llj tj^e little laws of a boarding-school ; and that the ex- 

^ istence of the human race depends upon teaching women a little 
more or a little less; that-Cimmerian ignorance can^d paternal 
affection, or the circle of arts and sciences produce its destruction. 
In the same manner, we forget the principles upon which the love 
of order, arrangement, and all the arts of economy depend. They 
depend not upon ignorance nor idleness; but upon the poverty, 
confusion, and ruin which would ensue for neglecting them. ^ ** 
A great part of the objections made to the education of women 
are rather objections made to human nature than to the female 
sex; for it is. surely true that knowledge, where it produces any 
bad 'effects at all, does a» much mischief to one sex as to the other — 
and gives birth to fully as much arrogance, inattention to common 
affiirs, and eccentricity among men, as it does among wom&n. But. 
it by no ^eans fellows that you get rid of vanity and»self-conceit 
because you get rid of learning. Self complacency can never want 
an excuse; and the best way to make it more tolerable, and more 
useful, is to give to it as high and as digni^ed an C5[)j.ect as possibTe. 
But at all events it is unfair to bring forward against a part of the 
world an T)bjcctiou which is equally powerful against the whole. 
When,fop^sh women think they have any distinction, they are apt 
to be proud of it; so are foolish men. *But we appeal to any one 
who has lived with cultivated persons of eitheii sex, whether he 
has not witnessed as much pedantry, as mucJ^wrongheadedness, 
as much arrogance, and certainly a great deal mofrfi-ud'cnf ss, pro- 
duced by learning in men, than in women; therefore, we should 
make the accusation gcneral-r^or dismiss it altogether. 

We must in candor allow that those women who begin will have 
something more to overcome than may probably hereafter be the 
case. We cannot deny the jealousy which exists among pompous 



1837.] SMITH. ^ 479 

and foolisli men respecting the -jducation of women. There is a 
class of pedants who would be cut short in the estimation of the 
world a whole cubit, if it were generally known that a young lady 
of eighteen could be taught to decline the tenses of the middle 
voice, or acquaint herself with the JEolic varieties of that cele- 
brated language. Then women have, of course, all ignorant men 
for enemies to their instruction, who being bound (as they think), 
in point of sex, to know more, are not well pleased, in point of 
fact, to know less. But, among men of sense and liberal polite- 
ness, a woman who has successfully cultivated her mind, without 
diminishing the gentleness and propriety of her manners, is always 
sure to meet with a respect and attention bordering upon enthu- 
siasm. ^ y^ ^ 

The most beautiful possession which a country can have is a 
noble and rich man, who loves virtue and knowledge; who, without 
being feeble or fanatical, is pious — and who, without being factious, 
is firm and independent; who is a firm promoter of all which can 
shed a lustre upon his country, or promote the peace and order of 
the world. But if these objects are of the importance which we 
attribute to them, the education of women must be important, as 
the formation of character for the first seven or eight years of life 
seems to depend almost entirely upon them. It is certainly in the 
power of a sensible and well-educated mother to inspire, within 
that period, such tastes and propensities as shall nearly decide the 
destiny of the future man; and this is done, not only by the in- 
tentional exertions of the mother, but by the gradual and insen- 
sible imitation of the child; for there is something extremely 
contagious in greatness and rectitude of thinking, even at that age; 
and the character of the mother with whom he passes -his early 
infancy is always an event of the utmost importance to the child. 
A merely accomplished woman cannot infuse her tastes into the 
minds of her sons; and, if she could, nothing could be more un- 
fortunate than her success. Besides, when her accomplishments 
are given up, she has nothing left for it but to amuse herself in the 
best way she can ; and, becoming entirely frivolous, either declines 
altogether the fatigue of attending to her children, or, attending 
to them, has neither talents nor knowledge to succeed; and, there- 
fore, here is a plain and fair answer to those who ask so triumph- 
antly, why should a woman dedicate herself to this branch of 
knowledge? or why should she be attached to such science? Be- 
cause, by having gained information on these points, she may inspire 
her son with valuable tastes, which may abide by him through life, 
and carry him up to all the sublimities of knowledge; because she 
cannot lay the foundation of a great character, if she is absorbed 



480 SMITH. [VICTORIA 

in frivolous amusements, noT inspire her child with noble desires, 
when a long course of trifling has destroyed the little talents which 
were left by a bad education. :^ -^ :r^ 

One of the greatest pleasures of life is conversation ; and the 
pleasures of conversation are of course enhanced by every increase 
of knowledge : not that we should meet together to talk of alkalies 
and angles, or to add to our stock of history and philology — though 
a little of these things is no bad ingredient in conversation; but let 
the subject be what it may, there is always a prodigious difference 
between the conversation of those who have been well educated 
and of those who have not enjoyed this advantage. Education 
gives fecundity of thought, copiousness of illustration, quickness, 
vigor, fancy, words, images, and illustrations; it decorates every 
common thing, and gives the power of trifling without being un- 
dignified and absurd. The subjects themselves may not be wanted, 
upon which the talents of an educated man have been exercised; 
but there is always a demand for those talents which his education 
has rendered strong and quick. Now, really, nothing can be fur- 
ther from our intention than to say anything rude and unpleasant; 
but we must be excused for observing that it is not now a very 
common thing to be interested by the variety and extent of female 
knowledge, but it is a very common thing to lament that the finest 
faculties in the world have been confined to trifles utterly unworthy 
of their richness and their strength. 

If, therefore, you educate women to attend to dignified and im- 
portant subjects, you are multiplying beyond measure the chances 
of human improvement, by preparing and medicating those early 
impressions which always come from the mother; and which, in 
a great majority of instances, are quite decisive of character and 
genius. Nor is it only in the business of education that women 
would influence the destiny of men. If women knew more, men 
must learn more — for ignorance would then be shameful — and it 
would become the fashion to be instructed. The instruction of 
women improves the stock of national talents, and employs more 
minds for the instruction and amusement of the world; it increases 
the pleasures of society, by multiplying tbe topics upon which the 
two sexes take a common interest; and makes marriage an inter- 
course of understanding as v/ell as of affection, by giving dignity 
and importance to tbe female character. The education of women 
favors public morals; it provides for every season of life, as well 
as for the brightest and the best : and leaves a woman, when she 
is stricken by the hand of time, not as she now is, destitute of 
everything, and neglected by all; but with the full power and the 
splendid attractions of knowledge — diffusing the elegant pleasures 



1837.] SMITH. - 481 

of polite literature, and receiving the just homage of learned and 
accomplished men. 



THE COST OF MILITARY GLORY.* 

We can inform Brother Jonathan what are the inevitable con- 
sequences of being too fond of glory — Taxes upon every article 
which enters into the mouth, or covers the back, or is placed under 
the foot — taxes upon everything which it is pleasant to see, hear, 
feel, smell, or taste — taxes upon warmth, light, and locomotion — 
taxes on everything on earth, and the waters under the earth — 
on everything that comes from abroad, or is grown at home — taxes 
on the raw material — taxes on every fresh value that is added to 
it by the industry of man — taxes on the sauce which pampers 
man's appetite, and the drug that restores him to health — on the 
ermine which decorates the judge, and the rope which hangs the 
criminal — on the poor man's salt, and the rich man's spice — on 
the brass nails of the coffin, and the ribbons of the bride — at bed 
or board, couchant or levant, we must pay. — The schoolboy whips 
his taxed top — the beardless youth manages his taxed horse, with 
a taxed bridle, on a taxed road : — and the dying Englishman, pour- 

» This lesson cannot be too deeply impressed on the minds of American 
youth. We are following the footsteps of European despots so fast that, unless 
the people arise and send to Congress men whose Christian obligations are 
stronger than their party ties, we shall overtake them in a much less time than 
they have accumulated war debts to the amount of ten thousand millions of 
dollars. The whole expenses of our army and navy during the eiglit years of 
Washington's administration were less than eleven millions; now they are 
tiuenty-two millions in one year ! ! ! The whole expenses of our most wicked 
Mexican war — a war waged to extend the curse of slavery — will not be less, 
from first to last, than two hundred 'millions of dollars. 

Look, too, at the favoritism shown to military men. To have been a suc- 
cessful human butcher is a sure passport to the highest public honors ; and all 
connected with the army are rewarded, down to the meanest soldier, in the 
shape of pensions, land-bounties, &c. &c. Who ever heard among us of such 
rewards being given to those who had really benefited the world by their 
writings or by useful inventions and discoveries? England is more consist- 
ent, in this respect, than we are, for she grants pensions to distinguished 
scholars when they are in a situation to require pecuniary aid. 

Again : compare the cost and utility of the War and Peace departments. 
For instance, what good have the army and navy done to the country the 
last year compared with the post-office department? The latter cost but 
five millions, carrying, in the shape of newspapers, magazines, and letters, 
food for the mind, and joy for the heart, to the doors of millions every day in 
the year. Its expenses, too, were paid by individuals^ and not by the govern- 
ment, for it would not risk even one million to confer the blessings of cheap 
postage, while it hesitated not to squander ttaenty-tivo millions upon the army 
and navy. The amount of money which a ship of the line costs every year 
would support five or six such colleges as Harvard, or Yale, or Dartmouth ! I 



482 SMITH. [VICTORIA 

ing his medicinGj "wliich has paid seven per cent., into a spoon that 
has paid fifteen per cent. — flings himself back upon his chintz bed, 
which has paid twenty-two per cent. — and expires in the arms of 
an apothecary, who has paid a license of a hundred pounds for the 
privilege of putting him to death. His whole property is then 
immediately taxed from two to ten per cent. Besides the probate, 
large fees are demanded for burying him in the chancel ; his virtues 
are handed down to posterity on taxed marble; and he is then 
gathered to his fathers — to be taxed no more. In addition to all 
this, the habit of dealing with large sums will make the govern- 
ment avaricious and profuse ; and the system itself will infallibly 
generate the base vermin of spies and informers, and a still more 
pestilent race of political tools and retainers of the meanest and 
most odious description; while the prodigious patronage which the 
collecting of this splendid revenue will throw into the hands of 
government will invest it with so vast an influence, and hold out 
such means and temptations to corruption, as all the virtue and 
public spirit, even of republicans, will be unable to resist. 



CASTLEREAGH, CANNING, AND — GRATTAN. 

There are two eminent Irishmen now in the House of Commons, 
Lord Castlereagh and Mr. Canning, who have it in their power, 
by making it the condition of their remaining in office, to liberate 
their native country and raise it to its just rank among the nations 
of the earth. Yet the court buys them over, year after year, by 
the pomp and perquisites of office, and year after year they come 
into the House of Commons, feeling deeply and describing power- 
fully the injuries of five millions of their countrymen — and con- 
tinue members of a government that inflicts those evils, under the 
pitiful delusion that it is not a cabinet question — as if the scratch- 
ings and quarrellings of kings and queens could alone cement po- 
liticians together in indissoluble unity, while the fate and fortune 
of one-third of the empire might be complimented away from one 
minister to another, without the smallest breach in their cabinet 
alliance. Politicians, at least honest politicians, should be very 
flexible and accommodating in little things, very rigid and inflex- 
ible in great things. And is this not a great thing? Who has 
painted it in finer and more commanding eloquence than Mr. Can- 
ning? Who has taken a more sensible and statesmanlike view of 
our miserable and cruel policy than Lord Castlereagh ? You would 
think, to hear them, that the same planet could not contain them 



1837.] SMITH. 483 

and the oppressors of their country — perhaps not the same solar 
system. Yet for money, claret, and patronage, they lend their 
countenance, assistance, and friendship to the ministers who are 
the stern and inflexible enemies to the emancipation of Ireland ! 

Thank God that all is not profligacy and corruption in the his- 
tory of that devoted people — and that the name of Irishman does 
not always carry with it the idea of the oppressor or the oppressed 
— the plunderer or the plundered — the tyrant or the slave. Great 
men hallow a whole people and lift up all who live in their time. 
What Irishman does not feel proud that he has lived in the days 
of Grattan ? who has not turned to him for comfort, from the false 
friends and open enemies of Ireland ? who did not remember him 
in the days of its burnings and wastings and murders? No go- 
vernment ever dismayed him — the world could not bribe him — he 
thought only of Ireland — lived for no other object — dedicated to 
her his beautiful fancy, his elegant wit, his manly courage, and all 
the splendor of his astonishing eloquence. He was so born and 
so gifted, that poetry, forensic skill, elegant literature, and all the 
highest attainments of human genius, were within his reach; but 
he thought the noblest occupation of a man was to make other 
men happy and free ; and in that straight line he went on for fifty 
years, without one side-look, without one yielding thought, without 
one motive in his heart which he might not have laid open to the 
view of God and man. He is gone ! but there is not a single day 
of his honest life of which every good Irishman would not be more 
proud than of the whole political existence of his countrymen — 
the annual deserters and betrayers of their native land. 



CHARACTER OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 

When I turn from living spectacles of stupidity, ignorance, and 
malice, and wish to think better of the world— I remember my 
great and benevolent friend Mackintosh. 

The first points of character which everybody noticed in him 
were the total absence of envy, hatred, malice, and uncharitable- 
ness. He could not hate — he did not know how to set about it. 
The gall-bladder was omitted in his composition, and if he could 
have been persuaded into any scheme of revenging himself upon 
an enemy, I am sure (unless he had been narrowly watched) it 
would have ended in proclaiming the good qualities, and promoting 
the interests of his adversary. Truth had so much more power 
over him than anger, that (whatever might be the provocation) he 



484 SMITH. [VICTORIA 

could not misrepresentj nor exaggerate. In questions of passion 
and party, he stated facts as tliey were, and reasoned fairly upon 
them, placing his happiness and pride in equitable discrimination. 
Very fond of talking, he heard patiently, and, not averse to intel- 
lectual display, did not forget that others might have the same 
inclination as himself. 

Till subdued by age and illness, his conversation was more bril- 
liant and instructive than that of any human being I ever had the 
good fortune to be acquainted with. His memory (vast and pro- 
digious as it was) he so managed as to make it a source of pleasure 
and instruction, rather than that dreadful engine of colloquial 
oppression into which it is sometimes erected. He remembered 
things, words, thoughts, dates, and everything that was wanted. 
His language was beautiful, and might have gone from the fire- 
side to the press; but though his ideas were always clothed in 
beautiful language, the clothes were sometimes too big for the body, 
and common thoughts were dressed in better and larger apparel 
than they deserved. He certainly had this fault, but it was not 
one of frequent commission. 

Curran, the master of the rolls, said to Mr. Grattan, "You 
would be the greatest man of your age, Grattan, if you would buy 
a few yards of red tape, and tie up your bills and papers." This 
was the fault or misfortune of Sir James Mackintosh ; he never 
knew the use of red tape, and was utterly unfit for the common 
business of life. That a guinea represented a quantity of shillings, 
and that it would barter for a quantity of cloth, he was well aware; 
but the accurate number of the baser coin, or the just measure- 
ment of the manufactured article, to which he was entitled for his 
gold, he could never learn, and it was impossible to teach him. 
Hence his life was often an example of the ancient and melancholy 
struggle of genius with the difl&culties of existence. * * 

He had very little science, and no great knowledge of physics. 
His notions of his early pursuit — the study of medicine — were 
imperfect and antiquated, and he was but an indiflferent classical 
scholar, for the Greek language has never crossed the Tweed in 
any great force. In history the whole stream of time was open 
before him; he had looked into every moral and metaphysical 
question from Plato to Paley, and had waded through morasses 
of international law, where the step of no living man could follow 
him. * * * 

A high merit in Sir James Mackintosh was his real and un- 
affected philanthropy. He did not make the improvement of the 
great mass of mankind an engine of popularity, and a stepping- 
stone to power, but he had a genuine love of human happiness. 



1837.] SMITH. 485 

Whatever might assuage the angry passions, and arrange the 
conflicting interests of nations; whatever could promote peace, 
increase knowledge, extend commerce, diminish crime, and en- 
courage industry; whatever could exalt human character, and 
could enlarge human understanding — struck at once at his heart, 
and roused all his faculties. I have seen him in a moment when 
this spirit came upon him — like a great ship of war — cut his cable, 
and spread his enormous canvass, and launch into a wide sea of 
reasoning eloquence. 



THE CURSE OF WAR. 

A second great object which I hope will be impressed upon the 
mind of this royal lady is a rooted horror of war — an earnest 
and passionate desire to keep her people in a state of profound 
peace. The greatest curse which can be entailed upon mankind 
is a state of war. All the atrocious crimes committed in years 
of peace — all that is spent in peace by the secret corruptions, or 
by the thoughtless extravagance of nations, are mere trifles com- 
pared with the gigantic evils which stalk over the world in a state 
of war. God is forgotten in war — every principle of Christian 
charity trampled upon — human labor destroyed — human industry 
extinguished; you see the son and the husband and the brother 
dying miserably in distant lands — you see the waste of human 
affections — you see the breaking of human hearts — you hear the 
shrieks of widows and children after the battle — and you walk 
over the mangled bodies of the wounded calling for death. I 
would say to that royal child, worship God, by loving peace — it 
is not your humanity to pity a beggar by giving him food or rai- 
ment — / can do that; that is the charity of the humble and the 
unknown — widen you your heart for the more expanded miseries 
of mankind — pity the mothers of the peasantry who see their 
sons torn away from their families — pity your poor subjects 
crowded into hospitals, and calling in their last breath upon their 
distant country and their young queen — pity the stupid, frantic 
folly of human beings who are always ready to tear each other to 
pieces, and to deluge the earth with each other^s blood; this is 
your extended humanity — and this the great field of your com- 
passion. Extinguish in your heart the fiendish love of military 
glory, from which your sex does not necessarily exempt you, and 
to which the wickedness of flatterers may urge you. Say upon 
your death-bed, " I have made few orphans in my reign — I have 
42 



486 SMITH. [victoria 

made few widows — my object has been peace. I have used all 
the weight of my character, and all the power of my situation, to 
check the irascible passions of mankind, and to turn them to the 
arts of honest industry: this has been the Christianity of my 
throne, and this the Gospel of my sceptre; in this way I have 
strove to worship my Redeemer and my Judge/' 

From a Letter to the Queen on her accession to the throne. 

Of his keen wit, and of the manner in which he " did up" authors, the 
following is a fine specimen. It is the very shortest review in the whole 
eighty-five volumes of the " Edinburgh Review," and I give it entire. It is 
a notice of the "Anniversary Sermon of the Royal Humane Society, by 
W. Langford, D.D." 

An accident which happened to the gentleman engaged in re- 
viewing this Sermon proves, in the most striking manner, the 
importance of this charity for restoring to life persons in whom 
the vital power is suspended. He was discovered, with Dr. Lang- 
ford's discourse lying open before him, in a state of the most pro- 
found sleep; from which he could not, by any means, be awakened 
for a great length of time. By attending, however, to the rules 
prescribed by the Humane Society, flinging in the smoke of to- 
bacco, applying hot flannels, and carefldly removing the discourse 
itself to a great distance^ the critic was restored to his disconsolate 
brothers. 

The only account he could give of himself was that he remem- 
bers reading on, regularly, till he came to the following pathetic 
description of a drowned tradesman ; beyond which he recollects 
nothing. 

" But to the individual himself, as a man, let us add the interruption to 
all the temporal business in which his interest was engaged. To him in- 
deed, now apparently lost, the world is as nothing : but it seldom happens, 
that man can live for himself alone : society parcels out its concerns in 
various connections ; and from one head issue waters which run down in 
many channels. The spring being suddenly cut off, what confusion must 
follow in the streams which have flowed from its source? It may be, 
that all the expectations reasonably raised of approaching prosperity, to 
those who have embarked in the same occupation, may at once disappear ; 
and the important interchange of commercial faith be broken off before it 
could be brought to any advantageous conclusion." 

This extract will suffice for the style of the sermon. The 
charity itself is above all praise. 

The following extract from " Peter Plymley's Letters" is a fine speci- 
men of his inimitable wit in ridiculing the idea, then prevalent, that a con- 
spiracy, headed by the pope, had been formed against the Protestant 
religion : — 



1837.] SMITH. 487 



CONSPIRACY OF THE POPE. 

The pope has not landed — nor are there any curates sent out 
after him — nor has he been hid at St. Albans by the Dowager 
Lady Spencer— nor dined privately at Holland House — nor been 
seen near Dropmore. If these fears exist (which I do not believe), 
they exist only in the mind of the chancellor of the exchequer 
[the late Mr. Spencer Perceval]; they emanate from his zeal for 
the Protestant interest; and though they reflect the highest honor 
upon the delicate irritability of his faith, must certainly be con- 
sidered as more ambiguous proofs of the sanity and vigor of his 
understanding. By this time, however, the best-informed clergy 
in the neighborhood of the metropolis are convinced that the rumor 
is without foundation : and though the pope is probably hovering 
about our coast in a fishing-smack, it is most likely he will fall a 
prey to the vigilance of the cruisers : and it is certain he has not 
yet polluted the Protestantism of our soil. Exactly in the same 
manner the story of the wooden gods seized at Charing Cross, by 
an order from the Foreign Ofiice, turns out to be without the 
shadow of a foundation: instead of the angels and archangels 
mentioned by the informer, nothing was discovered but a wooden 
image of Lord Mulgrave going down to Chatham as a head-piece 
for the Spanker gun-vessel : it was an exact resemblance of his 
lordship in his military uniform ; and therefore as little like a god 
as can well be imagined. 

In a similar vein he holds up, in a manner highly ludicrous and amusing, 
the fears entertained by England of a French invasion. He is arguing that, 
notwithstanding these fears, the British rulers neglected the obvious means 
of self-defence against 



THE FRENCH INVASION. 

As for the spirit of the peasantry in making a gallant defence 
behind hedgerows, and through plate-racks and hencoops, highly 
as I think of their bravery, I do not know any nation in Europe 
so likely to be struck with panic as the English; and this from 
their total unacquaintance with sciences of war. Old wheat and 
beans blazing for twenty miles round; cart mares shot; sows of 
Lord Somerville's breed running wild over the country; the mi- 
nister of the parish wounded sorely in his hinder parts; Mrs. 
Plymley in fits; all these scenes of war an Austrian or a Russian 



488 SMITH. [VICTORIA 

has seen three or four times over : but it is now three centuries 
since an English pig has fallen in a fair battle upon English ground, 
or a farm-house been rifled, or a clergyman's wife been subjected 
to any other proposals of love than the connubial endearments of 
her sleek and orthodox mate. The old edition of Plutarch's Lives, 
which lies in the corner of your parlor window, has contributed to 
work you up to the most romantic expectations of our Roman 
behavior. You are persuaded that Lord Amherst will defend Kew 
Bridge like Codes; that some maid of honor will break away from 
her captivity and swim over the Thames; that the Duke of York 
will burn his capitulating hand; and little Mr. Sturges Bourne 
give forty years' purchase for Moulsham Hall while the French 
are encamped upon it. I hope we shall witness all this, if the 
French do come; but in the mean time I am so enchanted with 
the ordinary English behavior of these invaluable persons, that I 
earnestly pray no opportunity may be given them for Roman valor, 
and for those very un-Roman pensions which they would all, of 
course, take especial care to claim in consequence. 

In a speech delivered in Taunton, in 1831, he thus ridicules the attempt 
of the lords to stop the 



PROGRESS OF REFORM. 

I do not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the lords 
to stop the progress of reform reminds me very forcibly of the 
great storm of Sidmouth, and of the conduct of the excellent Mrs. 
Partington on that occasion. In the winter of 1824 there set in 
a great flood upon that town — the tide rose to an incredible height 
— the waves rushed in upon the houses — and everything was 
threatened with destruction. In the midst of this sublime storm, 
Dame Partington^ who lived upon the beach, was seen at the door 
of her house with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, and squeez- 
ing out the sea-water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic 
Ocean. The Atlantic was roused. Mrs. Partington's spirit was 
up; but I need not tell you that the contest was unequal. The 
Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excellent at a slop 
or a puddle^ but she should not have meddled with a tempest. 



1837.] CHALMERS. 489 



THOMAS CHALMERS, 1780-1847. 

Thomas Chalmers, the distinguished Scottish divine, was born at An- 
struther, in Fifeshire, in April, 1780, and prosecuted his literary and 
theological studies at the University of St. Andrews. Two or three years 
after leaving the university, he obtained the church of Kilmany, in his 
native county. Here he continued to prosecute his scientific studies, and, 
in addition to his parochial labors, he lectured in the different towns on 
chemistry and other subjects, wrote many pamphlets on the topics of the 
day, and contributed the article "Christianity" to the "Edinburgh En- 
cyclopaedia," edited by Sir D. Brewster. This was afterwards published 
separately, under the title of " Evidences of the Christian Revelation." 

In 1814, he removed to the new church of St. John's, in Glasgow, and 
while there, rose to be the greatest preacher of the day — his fame extend- 
ing not only over Great Britain, but throughout all Europe and America ; 
and no visit to the country was deemed by any one complete unless he heard 
Chalmers preach. But he was not content with his distinguished rank in 
theology, for in 1817 he entered the scientific arena, and published his 
celebrated " Discourses on Astronomy." In 1818 appeared his "Com- 
mercial Discourses;" in 1819 his "Occasional Discourses in the Tron 
Church and St. John's Church;" and in 1821 his "Civic and Christian 
Economy of Large Towns." 

After laboring for some years in Glasgow, he was appointed, in 1824, to 
the professorship of moral philosophy in the University of St. Andrews. 
His arrival there gave an impulse to that ancient seminary, which brought 
back much of the glory of its former days. The next year he was invited 
to take a chair in the then projected London University, but declined. 
During the period of his settlement at St. Andrews, he published his works 
" On Church and College Endowments," on " Political Economy," his 
" Bridgewater Treatise," and his " Lectures on the Romans." His pub- 
lished works form twenty-five volumes, and they have been widely circu- 
lated. In addition to these, he has made many and important contributions 
to periodical literature. 

In 1828 he was removed to the chair of theology in the University of 
Edinburgh, the highest academical distinction which could be conferred, and 
here, undisturbed by any change, he prosecuted his labors for many years, 
and concentrated upon himself a deeper interest than any other clergyman 
of the religious world either in Great Britain or America. Then came the 
memorable year 1843, when a very large and influential number of the 
clergy and their congregations seceded from the Established Church of 
Scotland, in defence of their right to have only such pastors as were their 
own choice, and not such as dukes and lords might thrust upon them at 
pleasure. Dr. Chalmers led the seceding party, and consequently resigned 
his professorship in the university — a noble instance of sacrificing all 
worldly advantage for the cause of truth ! 

42* 



490 CHALMERS. [VICTORIA 

"Few scholars had accumulated so many academic honors as Dr. Chal- 
mers. He received the degree of LL.D. from the University of Oxford, 
and was elected a corresponding member of the Royal Institute of France, 
honors never before awarded to a Presbyterian divine, and seldom to a 
Scotsman. In fine, while living he received all the homage and respect 
usually accorded to great men when dead, and this mainly because, while 
living, he was a good man as well as a great man. With him religion was 
not a mere theory on which he could expatiate with a wondrous grasp of 
intellect, illustrate with the most vivid imagination, and set before an 
audience in all the perspicuity and clearness that a complete mastery of 
his subject could accomplish. It was a living faith that mingled with all 
his thoughts, imparted a tone to his language, and moulded his actions ; it 
was realized in his whole course of conduct. His attainments in science, 
his genius, his life seemed devoted to one end — to raise Lis country by the 
lever of religion." 

Dr. Chalmers retired to rest on the evening of Sunday, May 30, 1847, 
apparently in perfect health, and died calmly during the night, the bed- 
clothes being found undisturbed about his person. The news of his death 
caused a most profound sensation throughout Great Britain and America, 
for it was felt that one of the brightest lights in the literary and religious 
world had gone out. 



VIRTUE AND VICE CONTRASTED. 

Virtue is not only seen to be right — it is felt to be delicious. 
There is happiness in the very wish to make others happy. There 
is a heart's ease, or a heart's enjoyment, even in the first purposes 
of kindness, as well as in its subsequent performances. There is 
a certain rejoicing sense of clearness in the consistency, the 
exactitude, of justice and truth. There is a triumphant elevation 
of spirit in magnanimity and honor. In perfect harmony with 
this, there is a placid feeling of serenity and blissful contentment 
in gentleness and humility. There is a noble satisfaction in those 
victories which, at the bidding of a principle, or by the power of 
self-command, may have been achieved over the propensities of 
animal nature. There is an elate independence of soul in the 
consciousness of having nothing to hide, and nothing to be 
ashamed of. In a word, by the constitution of our nature each 
virtue has its appropriate charm ; and virtue, on the whole, is a 
fund of varied as well as of perpetual enjoyment to him who hath 
imbibed its spirit, and is under the guidance of its principles. He 
feels all to be health and harmony within ; and without, he seems 
as if to breathe in an atmosphere of beauteous transparency, prov- 
ing how much the nature of man and the nature of virtue are in 



1837.] CHALMERS. 491 

unison with each other. It is hunger which urges to the use of 
food ; but it strikingly demonstrates the care and benevolence of 
God so to have framed the organ of taste as that there shall be 
a superadded enjoyment in the use of it. It is conscience which 
urges to the practice of virtue; but it serves to enhance the proof 
of a moral purpose, and, therefore, of a moral character in God so 
to have framed our mental economy that, in addition to the felt 
obligation of its rightness, virtue should of itself be so regaling to 
the taste of the inner man. 

In counterpart to these sweets and satisfactions of virtue, is the 
essential and inherent bitterness of all that is morally evil. We 
repeat, that with this particular argument we do not mix up the 
agonies of remorse. It is the wretchedness of vice in itself, not 
the wretchedness which we suffer because of its recollected and 
felt wrongness, that we now speak of. It is not the painfulness 
of the compunction felt because of our anger, upon which we at 
this moment insist, but the painfulness of the emotion itself; and 
the same remark applies to all the malignant desires of the human 
heart. True, it is inseparable from the very nature of a desire 
that there must be some enjoyment or other at the time of its 
gratification, but, in the case of these evil affections, it is not un- 
mixed enjoyment. The most ordinary observer of his own feel- 
ings, however incapable of analysis, must be sensible, even at the 
moment of wreaking in full indulgence of his resentment on the 
man who has provoked or injured him, that all is not perfect and 
entire enjoyment within ; but that in this, and indeed in every 
other malignant feeling, there is a sore burden of disquietude, an 
unhappiness tumultuating in the heart and visibly pictured on the 
countenance. It seems indispensable to the nature of every de- 
sire, and to form part, indeed, of its very idea, that there should 
be a distinctly felt pleasure, or, at least, a removal at the time of 
a distinctly felt pain, in the act of its fulfilment — yet whatever 
recreation or relief may have thus been rendered without doing 
away the misery, often in the whole amount of it, the intense 
misery inflicted upon man by the evil propensities of his nature. 
Who can doubt, for example, the unhappiness of the habitual 
drunkard ? and that, although the ravenous appetite by which he 
is driven along a stormy career meets every day, almost every 
hour of the day, with the gratification that is suited to it ? The 
same may be equally affirmed of the voluptuary, or of the depre- 
dator, or of the extortioner, or of the liar. Each may succeed in 
the attainment of his specific object, and we cannot possibly dis- 
join from the conception of success the conception of some sort 
of pleasure, yet, in perfect consistency, we affirm, with a sad and 



492 CHALMERS. [VICTORIA 

heavy burthen of unpleasantness or unhappiness on the whole. 
He is little conversant with our nature who does not know of 
many a passion belonging to it that it may be the instrument of 
many pleasurable, nay, delicious or exquisite sensations, and yet 
be a wretched passion still — the domineering tyrant of a bonds- 
man who at once knows himself to be degraded, and feels himself 
to be unhappy. A sense of guilt is one main ingredient of this 
misery. 



THE SUPREMACY OF CONSCIENCE. 

Conscience in man is as much a thing of observation as the 
regulator in a watch is a thing of observation. It depends for 
its truth, therefore, on an independent and abiding evidence of 
its own under all the diversities of speculation on the nature of 
virtue. By the supremacy of conscience, we affirm a truth which 
respects not the nature of virtue, but the nature of man. It is 
that in every human heart there is a faculty, not, it may be, 
having the actual power, but having the just and rightful preten- 
sions to sit as judge and master over the whole of human conduct. 
Other propensities may have too much sway, but the moral pro- 
pensity, if I may so term it, never can ; for to have the presiding 
sway in all our concerns is just that which properly and legiti- 
mately belongs to it. A man under anger may be too strongly 
prompted to deeds of retaliation, or under sensuality be too 
strongly prompted to indulgence, or under avarice be too closely 
addicted to the pursuit of wealth, or even under friendship be too 
strongly inclined to partiality; but he can never, under con- 
science, be too strongly inclined to be as he ought, and to do as 
he ought. We may say of a watch that its mainspring is too power- 
ful ; but we would never say that a regulator is too powerful. 
We may complain of each of its other parts that it has too much 
influence over the rest; but not that the part whose office it is to 
regulate and fix the rate of going has too much influence. And 
just as a watch cannot move too regularly, man cannot walk too 
conscientiously. The one cannot too much obey its regulator ; 
the other cannot too much obey his conscience. In other words, 
conscience is the rightful sovereign in man ; and if any other, in 
the character of a ruling passion, be the actual sovereign, it is an 
usurper. 



1837.] CHALMERS. 493 



THE BARBARITIES OF WAR. 

The first great obstacle to the extinction of war is the way in 
which the heart of man is carried off from its barbarities and its 
horrors by the splendor of its deceitful accompaniments. There is 
a feeling of the sublime in contemplating the shock of armies, just 
as there is in contemplating the devouring energy of a tempest, and 
this so elevates and engrosses the whole man, that his eye is blind 
to the tears of bereaved parents, and his ear is deaf to the piteous 
moan of the dying, and the shriek of their desolated families. There 
is a gracefulness in the picture of a youthful warrior, burning for 
distinction on the field, and lured by this generous aspiration to 
the deepest of the animated throng, where, in the fell work of 
death, the opposing sons of valor struggle for a remembrance and 
a name ; and this side of the picture is so much the exclusive ob- 
ject of our regard, as to disguise from our view the mangled car- 
casses of the fallen, and the writhing agonies of the hundreds and 
the hundreds more who have been laid on the cold ground, where 
they are left to languish and to die. There no eye pities them. 
No sister is there to weep over them. There no gentle hand is 
present to ease the dying posture, or bind up the wounds which, 
in the maddening fury of the combat, have been given and re- 
ceived by the children of one common father. There death spreads 
its pale ensigns over every countenance, and when night comes 
on, and darkness around them, how many a despairing wretch 
must take up with the bloody field as the untended bed of his 
last sufferings, without one friend to bear the message of tender- 
ness to his distant home, without one companion to close his 
eyes ! 

I avow it. On every side of me I see causes at work which go 
to spread a most delusive coloring over war, and to remove its 
shocking barbarities to the back-ground of our contemplations 
altogether. I see it in the history, which tells me of the superb 
appearance of the troops, and the brilliancy of their successive 
charges. I see it in the poetry, which lends the magic of its 
numbers to ike narrative of blood, and transports its many ad- 
mirers, as by its images, and its figures, and its nodding plumes 
of chivalry, it throws its treacherous embellishments over a scene 
of legalized slaughter. I see it in the music, which represents 
the progress of the battle ; and where, after being inspired by the 
trumpet-notes of preparation, the whole beauty and tenderness of 
a drawino;-room are seen to bend over the sentimental entertain- 



494 GURNEY. [VICTORIA 

ment ; nor do I hear the utterance of a single sigh to interrupt 
the death-tones of the thickening contest, and the moans of the 
wounded men as they fade away upon the ear and sink into life- 
less silence. All, all goes to prove what strange and half-sighted 
creatures we are. Were it not so, war could never have been 
seen in any other aspect than that of unmingled hatefulness ; 
and I can look to nothing but to the progress of Christian senti- 
ment upon earth to arrest the strong current of its popular and 
prevailing partiality for war. Then only will an imperious sense 
of duty lay the check of severe principle on all the subordinate 
tastes and faculties of our nature. Then will glory be reduced to 
its right estimate, and the wakeful benevolence of the gospel, 
chasing away every spell, will be turned by the treachery of no 
delusion whatever from its sublime enterprises for the good of the 
species. Then the reign of truth and quietness will be ushered 
into the world, and war, cruel, atrocious, unrelenting War, will be 
stripped of its many and its bewildering fascinations. 



JOSEPH JOHN GURNEY, 1788—1847. 

Joseph John Gurney, the distinguished philanthropist, was the third son 
of John Gurney and Catherine, sister of Prisciila Wakefield, and was born 
in Earlhamhall, near Norwich, on the 2d of August, 1788, Being early 
deprived of a most excellent mother, his early education devolved upon his 
three elder sisters, whose intelligent and affectionate training had a great 
influence over his mind. One of these was the late Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, 
who doubtless inspired his mind with those principles which she herself 
afterwards so nobly carried out into beneficent practice. After having gone 
through the usual preparatory studies under the direction of the Rev. J. H. 
Browne, a clergyman of Hingham, twelve miles from Norwich, he went 
to Oxford, and enjoyed all its advantages without becoming a member of 
the university, or subscribing to the Thirty-Nine Articles. He had always 
a very strong desire for knowledge, and before he was twenty- two years of 
age his classical and mathematical attainments were very respectable, and 
he had an extensive acquaintance with the Hebrew and Striae languages. 
But what i'S best of all, his early studies were not only pursued and per- 
fected in after life, but all the intellectual wealth and power they afforded 
were consecrated to the advancement of truth and piety in himself and 
others. 

Notwithstanding his university education, he " was led" (in his own 
words), " partly by research, but chiefly, I trust, by a better guidance, to a 



1837.] GURNEY. 495 

settled preference, on my own account, of the religious profession of 
Friends," and in 1818 he became a recognized 7ninistcr in the society. 
"The simplicity of his style, the appropriateness of his illustrations, the 
ease and gracefulness of his manner, and the deep and honest interest which 
he always manifested in the subject of his address, rendered him a most 
attractive and persuasive speaker." This same year (1818) he went a 
journey with his sister, Mrs. Fry, to examine the state of the prisons in 
Scotland and the north of England, the results of which were given to the 
public in a volume of well-selected facts, accompanied by wise and bene- 
volent suggestions on the subject of prison discipline. A similar journey 
to Ireland was undertaken by the same parties in the spring of 1827. 

In 1837, Joseph John Gurney made a religious visit to our country, and 
travelled through most of the Northern States, and in Upper and Lower 
Canada. The various incidents of his journey, the objects that attracted 
his attention, and the impressions our country and countrymen made upon 
his mind are narrated in a pleasant style, in a series of letters to " Amelia 
Opie." Prompted by benevolence of heart, and an earnest desire to 
benefit his fellow-men, he sailed from New York in November, 1839, in 
company with Mahlon Day, for the West Indies, to see for himself the 
actual results and benefit of emancipation. On his return the next summer, 
he made his journey known to the public in a series of " Familiar Letters, 
addressed by permission to Henry Clay, of Kentucky," which showed con- 
clusively the benefits and blessings, physical, economical, and moral, which 
always must, in the long run, attend a course of justice and mercy : and 
that whatever is right is also expedient. 

He afterwards made four visits to the Continent, the first in 1841, in con- 
junction with his brother Samuel ; the second with his sister Mrs. Fry ; and 
the third and fourth with Mrs. Gurney and Mrs. Fry. The object of all 
these visits was to direct the attention of benevolent and influential indi- 
viduals to the subject of slavery ; to obtain its abolition ; to administer com- 
fort and consolation to the distressed in prisons ; and to ameliorate the 
condition of those confined in jails, and hospitals, and lunatic asylums. 
Thus, after the example of their Divine Master, they " went about doing 
good." Their reception everywhere was most cordial. "The common 
people heard them gladly." They were admitted to long and familiar in- 
terviews with several of the continental sovereigns; and in some instances 
accomplished what diplomacy had failed to effect. 

Mr. Gurney's death was occasioned by an accident which occurred to him 
on returning home from a meeting of the Visiting Society of Norwich, on 
the 22d of December, 1846, when, in consequence of his horse slipping, he 
was thrown over its head, and his death unexpectedly ensued on the 4th of 
the next January. 

As an author, Mr. Gurney's works were numerous, and he ranks among 
the very best writers on practical Christianity. His " Observations on the 
Distinguishing Views and Practices of the Society of Friends," first pub- 
lished in 1824, had passed through seven editions at the time of his death. 
His "Essays on the Evidences, Doctrines, and Practical Operations of 



496 GURNEY. [VICTORIA 

Christianity," is a most valuable work, from which Christians of every 
denomination may derive instruction and improvement. His " Biblical 
Notes and Dissertations" are chiefly critical and philological examinations 
of Scripture, relative to the Deity and Incarnation of Christ. Another 
excellent little work is his "Hints on the Portable Evidences of Christian- 
ity." His " Thoughts on Habit and Discipline" relates, principally, to self- 
government and usefulness; and his "Essay on the Habitual Exercise of 
Love to God, considered as a Preparation for Heaven," may be regarded 
as Its sequel. His other works contain treatises " On the Observance of 
the Sabbath ;" " Right Application of Knowledge ;" " The Accordance of 
Geology with Natural and Revealed Religion;" and on many other sub- 
jects, all of which show a mind deeply imbued with the spirit of true 
wisdom and piety, and ardently desirous to instruct and bless mankind. 

The principal Christian and charitable societies in 'vhich he took an 
active part were those for the Abolition of Slavery and Capital Punish- 
ment, for the promotion of Peace and Temperance, and the British and 
Foreign Bible Society. The amount of money which he gave to these 
and numerous other benevolent institutions is past all calculation. He was 
one of those few, very few men, whose heart was as large as his purse. 
But the question may be asked, how was he able to fulfil these various and 
multitudinous engagements, and to do so much for others, while at the same 
time he v/as an active partner in one of the most extensive banking estab- 
hshments in the kingdom? The answer is easy: he was a man of most 
orderly and industrious habits, and a great economist of time. "Every 
day was well packed up ; and hours and seasons were set apart for leisure 
and relaxation, as well as for employment and labor. By these means he 
could attend at the bank ; speak at a public meeting ; write an essay ; and 
take a long and laborious journey : and he could also be the companion of 
his beloved family ; walk in his fragrant gardens ; admire with intelligent 
taste the varieties of nature ; or go to describe to the children in a school 
the wonderful structure of the human eye. While he thu? performed the 
labors of life, he enjoyed its comforts ; what was great was well attended 
to, what was small was not neglected : he seemed to have time and place 
for everything, except idleness ; he was most thoroughly a man, as well as 
a Christian, and could consistently say with the Apostle, 'The life I live 
in the flesh is by the faith of the Son of God.' "^ 



THE TEACHINGS OF CHRISTIANITY. 

Let any man take our Saviour's Sermon on the Mount; and I 
will venture to say that, if he is a man of any moral feeling, of 
any moral discernment, of any nice taste, on the subject of virtue; 

For this account of his life I am chiefly indebted to a notice in the ^'Geix- 



tleman's Magazine," 1847 



1837.] GURNEY. 497 

he has, in that Sermou on the Mount, a most definite, internal 
proof of the divine authority of our religion. Let us point out one 
or two instances; take the first beatitude: ^^ Blessed are the poor 
in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.^' Now this is a 
point which distinguishes the moral system of the Bible. The 
whole moral system of the Bible may be said to be founded, as it 
were, on humility; from humility may be said to spring other 
virtues in abundance; humility, contrition, brokenness, poverty of 
spirit, are absolutely essential to a Christian character : but when 
you come to open the pages of the ancient philosophers, the in- 
spired philosophers of Greece, we find that there is much, very 
much, to flatter the pride of man, and to nurse him in the notion 
of his own original virtue. Poverty of spirit would, by many of 
the ancient writers, have been considered a shame and a folly, and 
unworthy of the very character of a man; and yet I should like 
to know, whether there is any one moral quality which works so 
well in practice, and so upholds the welfare of man, in the power 
of God, as humility and brokenness of spirit? And here we have 
a distinguishing point, of the highest moral importance, embo- 
somed in the code of Christianity; distinguishing it from all the 
other codes, and affording an evidence in itself of its divine origin. 
Then again, ''Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see 
God." Here is another point, in which our Saviour traces the 
virtue of man to that spring from which it must come; that is, 
the heart made pure. He tells us that man's heart naturally 
brings forth the works of evil until it is made pure by the power 
of the Holy Spirit — renewed by God under the influence of that 
Spirit; that the spring and origin of all morals is the purity of 
heart — a most distinguishing feature. For you will generally find 
that whatever was written on morals by uninspired persons is ex- 
ternal, only the surface of things; it does not go down into the 
depths of human motives. But more especially the moral system 
of the Bible is distinguished by this circumstance, that it always 
brings forward love to God, as the very foundation of the whole. 
And here there is a marked distinction from all the other moral 
systems which have ever been invented. We are taught by our 
Saviour, we are taught by his apostles, that the first principle of 
morals is to love God with all our hearts and with all our souls; 
and from this principle, all that is virtuous and excellent (either 
for the glory of God, or the welfare of man) is found to spring. 
And if we take these points into view, and contrast them with 
whatever has been produced, in any age, by moral, uninspired per- 
sons, the contrast affords a most abundant evidence of the divine 
origin of Scripture. It is also to be remembered that, whatever 
43 



498 GURNEY. [VICTORIA 

you find in modern writers, of correct theology, or true morals, 
we find in its original form in the Holy Scriptures; and though 
you may find some sayings on this subject in the writings of un- 
believers, they are borrowed, all of them borrowed, from the sacred 
pages. 

Evidences of Christianity . 



LOVE DUE FROM MAN TO MAN. 

The claims of our Heavenly Father on our love and gratitude 
are incomparably superior to those of any earthly parent; and 
when these claims are acknowledged and felt, our love to our fel- 
low-men, the common objects with ourselves of his goodness, both 
in creation and providence, rests on a secure basis; it becomes 
what it never was before, a heaven-horn afi"ection. But what vast 
additional force is imparted to this affection, through the gospel 
of our Redeemer ! When the great truth is impressed on our 
hearts that God sent his own Son into the world to save us — even 
to redeem us, by his death on the cross, from the pains of hell, 
and from the slavery of sin and Satan — our love cannot fail to 
flow and abound. We are gently constrained, under a divine in- 
fluence, first to love the Lord our God, and Jesus Christ whom he 
has sent, and next to love that universal family of man for whom 
Christ died. " If God so loved us, we ought also to love one 
another/' 

Again, we have seen that those who truly love God are distin- 
guished by a cordial desire and endeavor to resemble the object of 
their regard. But there is not one of his moral attributes more 
clearly placed within the scope of our perception and imitation 
than his love to man. 

It appears, therefore, that there is something more than a bare 
succession — that there is sequence, in the sense of cause and effect, 
— in the two great commandments of the law of God. When the 
lawyer questioned Jesus, saying, " Master, which is the great com- 
mandment of the law T' Jesus said unto him, " Thou shalt love the 
Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with 
all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And 
the second is like unto it, thou shalt love thy neighbor as 

THYSELF.^' 

The Samaritans were a people quite distinct from the Jews; 
yet we find, from that exquisite parable by which Jesus answered 
the lawyer's question on the subject before us, that the good Sa- 
maritan was neighbor to the Jew who fell among thieves; and 



1837.] GURNEY. 499 

proved himself to be so by exercising towards him the offices of 
Christian charity. And as the term is strictly reciprocal, it of 
course follows that the Jew also was neighbor to the Samaritan. 

Hence it appears that, under the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
all men of every color and country who fall under our notice, or 
are within the reach of our influence, must bo regarded as our 
neighbors; and that it is our duty to love them as we love our- 
selves. Nor does the mere distance of the party from us deprive 
him of this character; for Christianity is a diffusive religion. 
Under its influence, ice have to do with millions whom we have 
never seen; and while it in no degree weakens the pre-eminent 
claims upon us of our own countrymen, it supplies us with neigh- 
bors, whom it is our duty to serve, in the remotest parts of the 
habitable globe. When the apostles were commanded to go forth 
and to proclaim the glad tidings of salvation to every creature 
under heaven, they were taught, by the very command itself, to 
regard every creature under heaven as their neighbor and their 
friend. 

But the Samaritans were not only of a different stock from the 
Jews; the two nations were at enmity with each other. 

It appears, then, that the enmity of any persons, or of any 
nations of men, against ourselves, has no effect in removing them 
from the class of our neighbors; we must still love them, and treat 
them as our friends. In short, the terra '^neighbor," in this com- 
prehensive law, extends, under the Gospel, without any kind of 
exception, to the ichole family of our fellow-men. ^'The Lord,^^ 
said the apostle to the Thessalonians, " make you to increase and 
abound in love one towards another, and towards all men.^' 

Minor Works, sect. ix. 



IMPORTANCE QY ACCURATE MENTAL HABITS. 

I cannot entirely agree in the opinion of those persons who com- 
plain of the many hours, in each passing day, which are devoted, 
in most of our schools, to Latin and Greek. True, indeed, it is, 
that a number of modern languages, and various branches of phi- 
losophy and science, appear at first sight to present superior claims, 
in point of utility; but I believe that no man who has imbibed, 
at school, an accurate knowledge of Latin and Greek, will regret 
the hours which have been devoted to the pursuit. Not only will 
he find the polish of classical literature a real advantage, and its 
treasures worth enjoying; not only will his acquaintance with 
these languages facilitate the acquirement of others; but the habits 



500 GURNEY. [VICTORIA 

of study which he has obtained in the pursuit, will have given him 
a mastery over learning, which he will afterwards find it easy to 
apply to any of its departments. 

There is, however, another principle against which this diffusive 
system ofiends; it is that a little knowledge, of an exact and per- 
fect character, is more valuable, for practical purposes, than much 
superficial learning. We mostly find that success in the world, 
and particularly in the walks of literature, depends upon a deep 
and accurate acquaintance with some particular object of pursuit 
or inquiry, far more than on extent and variety. By too widely 
spreading our efforts, we are very sure to hinder our progress. 

It is essential that our children should be early instructed in 
the all-important lesson of learning what they do learn, icell. If 
we sacrifice this object to a mere spread of information, we shall 
inflict an injury on their minds, which, in all probability, will be 
found incurable. A child who from day to day is allowed to be 
inaccurate and superficial in construing his Latin lesson will be 
prone to act in the same manner with respect to the other branches 
of his learning, and his carelessness will even extend to his play. 
But these are only the smaller parts of the mischief. The bad 
habit of inaccuracy, once formed, will infect his mode of convers- 
ing, undermine his attention to trifth, and weaken him in his moral 
duties; nay, it will follow him to the place of public worship, and 
mar the early fruits of his religion and piety. 

The principle, that whatsoever children learn, they should learn 
exactly, is of equal importance whether their lessons be addressed 
to the memory, or to the understanding. If the business in hand 
is to get by rote a passage in the Latin grammar, or the declen- 
sions of a Greek verb, that business ought not to be passed over 
until it is perfectly accomplished. The memory must not be op- 
pressed by too large a demand upon its powers; but the short and 
easy lesson must be so learned as to be repeated without a fault 
and without difficulty. If, on the other hand, the tutor's object 
is to explain a rule in grammar, he must take care so to handle 
the subject as to leave the understanding of his pupil in a con- 
dition of perfect clearness. 

When an eminent person, remarkable for his achievements in 
science, eloquence, and business, was asked by what means he was 
enabled to efi"ect so much, he answered, "By being a ichole man 
to one thing at a time." This is an expedient to which our young 
people ought to be familiarized even from their childhood If 
their attention is scattered and divided, nothing will be learnt 
efi'ectually, or executed well; but, if they put forth their native 
energy to each object in succession — if they bestow their ivhoh 



1837.] GURNEY. 501 

mindS; first (for example) on their Scripture reading; secondly, 
on their classical lesson ; thirdly, on their arithmetic or geometry ; 
and fourthly, on their game of trap-ball or cricket — everything in 
its turn will be mastered ; and by the whole process the mind 
itself will be greatly strengthened. 

A second rule which this person mentioned as having been of 
great use to himself, was never to lose the passing opportunity — 
a rule which, like the former, is closely connected with the faculty 
of attention. Our young people should be taught to be always 
alive to the circumstances which surround them; and, in the only 
good and happy sense of the term, to be time-servers. It is de- 
sirable that they should be observant not only of their books, but 
of all things not sinful which meet their perception, in the passing 
scenery of life. By this means they will greatly increase their 
store of knowledge, and will be gradually prepared for usefulness 
in their day and generation. 

The well-known tale of the two lads who took the same walk 
in succession, the one seeing nothing, the other everything, affords 
an apt illustration of the advantage of an observing eye, and of 
the blank occasioned by its absence. In an especial manner ought 
our children to be led, both by precept and example, to be attentive 
readers of the book of nature; to delight in her charms, to examine 
her wonders; to investigate, even for their amusement, her animal, 
vegetable, and mineral kingdoms, and to trace the hand of God in 
everything I 

Thoughts on Habit and Discipline. 



EFFECTS OF EMANCIPATION. 

Esteemed friend : My narrative respecting the British West 
India Islands being now brought to a close, I will take the liberty 
of concentrating and recapitulating the principal points of the 
subject, in a few distinct propositions: — 

I. The emancipated negroes are loorking iveJl on the estates of 
their old masters. The evidence of this fact, contained in the fore- 
going letters, is, I hope, clear and ample. Thou wilt be pleased 
to recall the case of Tortola — especially the evidence of President 
Isaacs, who has fifteen hundred free laborers under his care; of 
St. Christopher's — that scene of industry and prosperity; of Nevis 
and Montserrat, of which the ofiicial accounts are so cheering and 
satisfactory ; of Antigua, where, after the trial of freedom for six 
years, the produce of sugar is largely increased, many estates, 
thrown up in slavery, are again under cultivation, and the landed 

43* 



502 GURNEY. [VICTORIA 

property, once sinking under its burdens, is already delivered from 
its mortgages; of Dominica, where, notwithstanding the lack of 
moral culture, and the superabundance of fertile wild land, the 
peasantry are working as peaceably and diligently, on their old 
locations, as in Antigua itself. Nor does Jamaica, when duly in- 
spected and fairly estimated, furnish any exception to the general 
result. We find that, in that island, wherever the negroes are 
fairly^ hinclly, and wisely treated, there they are working well on 
the properties of their old masters; and that the existing instances 
of a contrary description must be ascribed to causes which class 
under slavery, and not under freedom. Let it not, however, be 
imagined that the negroes who are not working on the estates of 
their old masters are on that account idle. Even these are in 
general busily employed in cultivating their own grounds, in va- 
rious descriptions of handicraft, in lime-burning or fishing — in 
benefiting themselves and the community, through some new, but 
equally desirable, medium. Besides all this, stone walls are built, 
new houses erected, pastures cleaned, ditches dug, meadows drained, 
roads made and macadamized, stores fitted up, villages formed, and 
other beneficial operations effected; the whole of which, before 
emancipation, it would have been a folly even to attempt. The 
old notion that the negro is, by constitution, a lazy creature, who 
will do no work at all except by comj^ulsion, is now forever ex- 
ploded. 

II. The personal comforts of the laboring population, under 
freedom, are multiplied tenfold. In making this assertion, I do 
not mean to insinuate that they enjoyed no comforts under slavery. 
On many of the estates, they were well fed and clothed, and were 
kindly treated in other respects. Their provision grounds were 
often ample, the poor and infirm were supported with the rest, 
medical attendance was given, and many of them found opportu- 
nities for saving money. On the other hand, I am fully aware 
that, since the date of full (nominal) freedom, they have been par- 
tially subjected, in some colonies, to grievous vexation and oppres- 
sion ; that, in others, their wages are too low ; that the poor and 
infirm are not always adequately provided for; and, lastly, that 
medical attendance in many cases has been withdrawn. 

Yet, on the whole, the improvement in their physical condition 
and comforts is wonderful. In the fii-st place, they are no longer 
suffering under the perpetual feeling of compulsion ; they are en- 
joying the pleasures of independence — the whip, the bilboes, the 
tread wheel are all withdrawn. And, secondly, their dress and 
diet are, both of them, very greatly better than they used to be, 
under slavery. They are constant customers now at the stores 



1837.] GURNEY. 603 

of the hosier, the linen-draper, the tailor, the shoemaker, and the 
grocer; of which delightful fact, we find both a sure evidence, and 
a happy consequence, in the vast increase — almost the doubling — 
of imports. Bread and meat are now commonly eaten by them. 
Remember their beautifully neat appearance at our meetings; their 
handsome wedding-dresses; the eggs consumed for their wedding- 
cakes; the wine, in their cottages, freely bestowed on weary pil- 
grims; their boots and shoes, which they are so much afraid of 
spoiling in the mud; the mules and horses, on which they come 
riding to their chapels; their pic-nic dinners, their social feasts of 
temperance and freedom. Above all, remember their thriving 
little freeholds — their gradual, but steady, accumulation of wealth. 
Wherever they are fairly treated, the laborers of Jamaica are 
already most favorably circumstanced. Teach them to improve 
the structure, arrangement, and furniture of their cottages ; and 
to exchange all items of finery and luxury for substantial domestic 
convenience — and it will be in vain to seek for a better-conditioned 
peasantry in any country of Europe. 

III. Lastly, the moral and religious improvement of this people^ 
under freedom, is more than equal to the increase of their com- 
forts. Under this head, there are three points, deserving, respect- 
ively, of a distinct place in our memories. First, the rapid 
increase and vast extent of elementary and Christian education 
— schools for infants, young persons, and adults, multiplying in 
every direction. Secondly, the gradual, but decided diminution 
of crime, amounting, in many country districts, almost to its ex- 
tinction. Thirdly, the happy change from habits of a most li- 
centious character. What is more, the improved morality of the 
blacks is reflecting itself on the white inhabitants; even the 
overseers are ceasing, one after another, from a sinful mode of life, 
and are forming reputable connections in marriage. But while 
these three points are confessedly of high importance, there is a 
fourth, which at once embraces and outweighs them all — I mean 
the diffusion of vital Christianity. I know that great apprehen- 
sions were entertained — especially in this country — lest, on the 
cessation of slavery, the negroes should break away at once from 
their masters and their ministers. But freedom has come, and 
while their masters have not been forsaken, their religious teachers 
have become dearer to them than ever. Under the banner of 
liberty, the churches and meeting-houses have been enlarged and 
multiplied, the attendance has become regular and devout, the 
congregations have in many cases been more than doubled — above 
all, the conversion of souls (as we have reason to believe) has been 
going on to an extent never before known in these colonies. In 



504 MANT. [victoria 

a religious point of view, as I have before hinted, the wilderness, 
in many places, has indeed ^' begun to blossom as the rose/' 
"Instead of the thorn,'' lias "come up the fir-tree; and instead of 
the brier," has "come up the myrtle-tree; and it shall be to the 
Lord for a name — for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off." 

Letter xii., from the West Indies. 



RICHARD MANT, 1776-1848. 

Richard Manx was born on the 1 2th of February, 1776, at Southampton, 
where his father, the Rev. Richard Mant, was rector of the church of All 
Saints. He was educated at Winchester College, and afterwards became 
a commoner of Trinity College, Oxford, from which he was elected a Fel- 
low of Oriel in 1798. For a short time he acted as professor at this college, 
and afterwards travelled on the Continent. On his return to England, he 
became, in 1813, chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and in 1815 
Rector of St. Botolph's, Bishopgate. In 1820, he was consecrated Bishop 
of Killaloe, and in 1823 was translated to the see of Down, Connor, and 
Dromare, which position he retained to the day of his death, which took 
place on the 2d of November, 1848. 

Dr. Mant owed his rise in the church to his professional authorship, and 
few writers of the present century have been more industrious.' In 1817, 
in conjunction with the Rev. George D'Oyly, Rector of Lambeth, he pre- 
pared an edition of the Bible, with a selection of notes from the best com- 
mentators of the Church of England. This was done at the expense of 
the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, by which " D'Oyly and 
Mam's Bible" has been frequently reprinted. His other prose publications 
were mostly sermons and works of a religious character. He also pub- 
lished a volume of" Miscellaneous Poems ;" another entitled " The Slave, 
and other Poetical Pieces;" and another called " The British Months," a 
poem in twelve parts, full of piety and accurate observations of nature. 
But Bishop Mant is now most known for his hymns, some of which are 
among the most beautiful sacred lyrics in the language, and for his other 
small poems on sacred subjects, which have a high degree of merit. 



TRUE KNOWLEDGE. 

What is true knowledge? — Is it with keen eye 
Of lucre's sons to thread the mazy way? 

' In the number of the "Gentleman's Magazine" for January, 1849, is a 
complete list of his works, which occupies nearly four columns. 



MANT. 505 

Is jt of civic rights, ^d royal sway, 
And wealth political, the depths to try? 
Is it to delve the earth, or soar the sky; 

To marshal nature's tribes in just array; 

To mix, and analyze, and mete, and weigh 
Her elements, and all her powers descry? 
These things, who will may know them, if to knov/ 

Breed not vain-glory; but o'er all to scan 
God, in his works and word shown forth below; 

Creation's wonders, and Redemption's plan. 
Whence came we, what to do, and whither go — 

This is true knowledge, and "the whole of man." 



THE LORD S DAY. 

Hail to the day which He who made the heaven, 
Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blest, 
Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest! 

Hail to the day when He by whom was given 

New life to man, the tomb asunder riven, 

Arose! That day His church hath still confest, 
At once Creation's and Redemption's feast. 

Sign of a world called forth, a world forgiven. 

Welcome that day, the day of holy peace, 

The Lord's own day ! to man's Creator owed, 

And man's Redeemer ; for the soul's increase 
In sanctity, and sweet repose bestowed ; 

Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease, 
The rest remaining for the loved of God ! 



THE CHURCH BELLS. 

What varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles 

Sweep o'er the ear and claim the heart's reply! 

Now the blithe peal of home festivity, 
Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells ; 
Now the brisk chime, or voice of altered bells, 

Speaks the due hour of social worship nigh : 

And now the last stage of mortality 
The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells. 
How much of human life those sounds comprise — 

Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb! 
Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise, 

Such as befit our being, free from gloom 
Monastic — prayer that communes with the skies, 

And musings mindful of the final doom. 



506 MANT. [VICTORIA 



THE DROP OP WATER. 

" How mean 'mid all this glorious space, how valueless am I!" 
A little drop of water said, as, trembling in the sky. 
It downward fell, in haste to meet th" interminable sea, 
As if the watery mass its goal and sepulchre should be. 

But, ere of no account, within the watery mass it fell — 
It found a shelter and a home, the oyster's concave shell ; 
And there that little drop became a hard and precious gem. 
Meet ornament for royal wreath, for Persia's diadem. 

Cheer up, faint heart, that hear'st the tale, and though thy lot may seem 

Contemptible, yet not of it as nothing-worth esteem : 

Nor fear that thou, exempt from care of Providence, shalt be 

An undistinguishable drop in nature's boundless sea. 

The Power that called thee into life has skill to make thee live, 

A place of refuge can provide, another being give; 

Can clothe thy perishable form with beauty rich and rare, 

And, "when He makes his jewels up," grant thee a station there. 



PRAYER. 

Ere the morning's busy ray 

Call you to your work away ; 

Ere the silent evening close 

Your wearied eyes in sweet repose — . 

To lift your heart and voice in prayer 

Be your first and latest care. 

He, to whom the prayer is due, 

From heaven, his throne, shall smile on yon ; 

Angels sent by Him shall tend, 

Your daily labor to befriend. 

And their nightly vigils keep 

To guard you in the hour of sleep. 

When through the peaceful parish swells 

The music of the Sabbath bells, 

Duly tread the sacred road 

Which leads you to the house of God; 

The blessing of the Lamb is there, 

And " God is in the midst of her." 

And oh ! where'er your days be past, 
And oh ! hov/e'er your lot be cast, 
Still think on Him whose eye surveys. 
Whose hand is over all your ways. 

Abroad, at home, in weal, in woe. 
That service which to heaven you owe, 



1837.] SMITH. " 507 

That bonnden service duly pay, 

And God shall be your strength alway. 

He only to the heart can give 
Peace and true pleasure while you live; 
He only, when you yield your breath. 
Can guide you through the vale of death. 

He can, he will, from out the dust 
Raise the blest spirits of the just ; 
Heal every wound, hush every fear ; 
From every eye wipe every tear ; 
And place them where distress is o'er, 
And pleasures dwell forevermore. 



HORACE SMITH, 1780—1849. 

Horace Smith, one of the accomplished authors of the " Rejected Ad- 
dresses," was the son of Robert Smith, Esq., Solicitor of the Customs, 
and was born in London in the year 1780. His elder brother, James, who 
was his associate in the " Rejected Addresses," * and other literary produc- 
tions, and whose Memoirs he edited in 1840, followed the profession of his 
father, and succeeded to his office of Solicitor. Horace was a stock-broker. 
The father at first discouraged the literary predilections of his sons, but 
ultimately assented to what could not be repressed. 

Besides his part of the " Rejected Addresses," and some other very 
beautiful poetry, Horace wrote a number of historical novels; but, though 
popular for the time, they are now well-nigh forgotten, and it is hardly 
worth while to recall their names. He died at Tunbridge Wells, whither 
he had gone for his health, on the 12th of July, 1849. 

' The occasion of the " Rejected Addresses, " called "one of the happiest 
hits in literature," was as follows : In 1812, the directors of the Drury Lane 
Theatre offered a premium of twenty pounds for the best poetical address, to 
be spoken on the opening of the new ediiice. A casual hint from Mr. Ward, 
secretary to the theatre, suggested to the witty brothers, James and Horace 
Smith, the composition of a series of humorous addresses in imitation of the 
style of the principal authors of the day, and professing to be composed by 
them. They were but six weeks in writing them, and the work was ready- 
by the opening of the theatre. Its success was almost unprecedented, for in 
ten years it reached the eighteenth edition. The articles written by James 
Smith are in imitation of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Crabbe, &c., and 
those by Horace of Walter Scott, Moore, Monk Lewis, Lord Byron, &c- 
The amount of talent displayed by the two brothers was about equal. Horace 
wrote Nos. 1, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 15; and James the rest. The elder 
brother seems to have been satisfied with his part of this work, and never 
wrote much of decided merit after. For this reason I have not given him a 
place in this work. 



508 SMITH. [victoria 



ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI S EXHIBITION. 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) 
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago, 

When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; 

Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune; 
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy! 

Revishing the glimpses of the moon. 
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 
But with thy bones and fleshy and limbs and features. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name? 

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer? 

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden 

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — 
Then say, what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 
Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my struggles 
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass; 

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat. 

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass. 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue 

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen. 

How the world looked when it was fresh and young. 
And the great deluge still had left it green ; 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent, incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; 



1837.] SMITH. " 509 

But prithee tell us something of thyself; 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, 
What hast thou seen — what strange adventures numbered? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended, 

New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations, 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 

When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, 

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 
And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, 
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder"? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, 

And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled: 
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? 
What was thy name and station, age and race ? 

Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence. 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning. 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning ! 

Why should this worthless tegument endure. 

If its undying guest be lost forever? 
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue, that, when both must sever. 
Although corruption may our frame consume, 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. ^ 



TO HIS DAUGHTER. 

O daughter dear, my darling child, 

Prop of my mortal pilgrimage, 
Thou who hast care and pain beguiled. 

And wreathed with Spring my wintry age ! — 
Through thee a second prospect opes 

Of life, when but to live is glee ; 
And jocund joys and youthful hopes 

Come thronging to my heart through thee, 

* Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine. 

44 



510 SMITH. [VICTORIA 

Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers 

Where love and youth their transports gave 5 
While forward still thou strewest flowers, 

And bid'st me live beyond the grave; 
For still my blood in thee shall flow, 

Perhaps to warm a distant line ; 
Thy face my lineaments shall show, 

And e'en my thoughts survive in thine. 

Yes, daughter, when this tongue is mute, 

This heart is dust, these eyes are closed — 
And thou art singing to thy lute 

Some stanza by thy sire composed — 
To friends around thou may'st impart 

A thought of him who wrote the lays, 
And from the grave my form shall start. 

Embodied forth to fancy's gaze. 

Then to their memories will throng 

Scenes shared with him who lies in earth — 
The cheerful page, the lively song. 

The woodland walk, or festive mirth; 
Then may they heave the pensive sigh. 

That friendship seeks not to control, 
And from the fixed and thoughtful eye 

The half unconscious tears may roll : 

Such now bedew my cheek — but mine 

Are drops of gratitude and love, 
That mingle human with divine, 

The gift below, its source above. 
How exquisitely dear thou art 

Can only be by tears expressed, 
And the fond thrillings of my heart. 

While thus I clasp thee to my breast! 

The following most admirable and witty imitation of Wordsworth's 
" Lyrical Ballads" was probably written by Horace : — 



THE baby's debut — BY W. W. 

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is 
drawu upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's por- 
ter.] 

My brother Jack was nine in May, 
And I was eight on New Year's day ; 

So in Kate Wilson's shop 
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) 
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, 

And brother Jack a top. 



SMITH. ~ 611 



Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is, 

He thinks mine came to more than his ; 

So to my drawer he goes. 
Takes out the doll, and, oh my stars! 
He pokes her head between the bars, 

And melts off half her nose! 

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg. 
And tie it to his peg top's peg, 

And bang, with might and main, 
Its head against the parlor door: 
Off flies the head, and hits the floor, 

And breaks a window-pane. 

This made him cry with rage and spite ; 
Well, let him cry, it serves him right. 

A pretty thing, forsooth ! 
If he's to melt, all scalding hot. 
Half my doll's nose, and I am not 

To draw his peg top's tooth ! 

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, 
And cried, " O naughty Nancy Lake, 

Thus to distress your aunt: 
No Drury Lane for you to-day !" 
And while papa said, " Pooh, she may!" 

Mamma said, " No, she sha'n't !" 

Well, after many a sad reproach. 
They got into a hackney coach, 

And trotted down the street. 
I saw them go: one horse was blind; 
The tails of both hung down behind ; 

Their shoes were on their feet. 

The chaise in which poor brother Bill 
Used to be drawn to Pentonville, 

Stood in the lumber room : 
I wiped the dust from off the top, 
While Molly mopped it with a mop, 

And brushed it with a broom. 

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, 
Came in at six to black the shoes 

(I always talk to Sam) ; 
So what does he, but takes and drags 
Me in the chaise along the flags. 

And leaves me where I am. 

My father's walls are made of brick. 
But not so tall, and not so thick 

As these ; and, goodness me ! 
My father's beams are made of wood, 
But never, never half so good 

As these that now I see. 



512 BARTON. [VICTORIA 

What a large floor ! 'tis like a town ! 
The carpet, when they lay it down, 

Won't hide it, I'll be bound: 
And there's a row of lamps ; my eye ! 
How they do blaze ! I wonder why 

They keep them on the ground. 

At first I caught hold of the wing, 
And kept away; but Mr. Thing- 

Umbob, the prompter man. 
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, 
And said, " Go on, my pretty love ; 

Speak to 'em, little Nan. 

" You've only got to curtsey, whisp- 
er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, 

And then you're sure to take : 
I've known the day when brats not quite 
Thirteen got fifty pounds a-night, 

Then why not Nancy Lake ?" 

But while I'm speaking, where's papa ? 

And Where's my aunt? and where's mamma? 

Where's Jack? Oh, there they sit! 
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, 
And order round poor Billy's chaise, 

To join them in the pit. 

And now, good gentlefolks, I go 
To join mamma, and see the show ; 

So, bidding you adieu, 
I curtsey, like a pretty miss. 
And if you'll blow to me a Idss, 

I'll blow a kiss to you. 

[Blows kiss and exit. 



BERNARD BARTON, 1784—1849. 

Bernard Barton, the celebrated Quaker poet, was born near London 
in 1784, and in 1806 removed to Woodbridge, where he shortly afterwards 
married, and was left a widower at the birth of his only child, who now 
survives him. In 1810, he entered as clerk in the banking-house of the 
Messrs. Alexander, where he officiated almost to the day of his death. 
There is very little of incident in his private life. He had for some time 
previous to his death been afflicted with disease of the heart. On the day 
of his death he appeared as well as usual ; but, soon after going into his 
chamber at night, he rang the bell for his servant, who, on entering the room, 



1837.] BARTON. 513 

found him in an easy chair panting for breath, and his medical attendant 
arrived only to see him breathe his last, on the 19th of February, 1849. 

Bernard Barton is known to the world as the author of much pleasing, 
amiable, and pious poetry, animated by fine feeling and fancy, and delight- 
ing in subjects of a domestic and moral character. He sang of what he loved 
— the domestic virtues in man, and the quiet pastoral scenes in nature ; and 
no one can read his poetry without feeling it to be the production of one 
of a chastened imagination, pure moral feeling, and who sympathized with 
all that tends to elevate and bless man. His first volume of poetry was 
published in 1811, and he continued to write till near the close of life, his 
poems filling seven or eight volumes. His "Household Verses," a collec- 
tion of fugitive pieces, published in 1845, contains, perhaps, more of his 
personal feelings than any previous publication; but much of his poetry 
remains unpublished in the hands of his friends. A few years before his 
death, he received a pension of one hundred pounds, conferred upon him 
by the queen, during the premiership of Sir Robert Peel. 

To those of his own neighborhood. Barton was known as a most amiable, 
genial, charitable man — of pure, unaffected piety; the good neighbor — the 
cheerful companion — the welcome guest — the hospitable host. Whether 
at his official place in the bank, or in the domestic circle, he was the same 
pleasant man, and had the same manners to all; always equally frank, 
genial, and communicative : and as he was charitable toward all, so he was 
beloved by all, of whatever creed, party, or condition in life. 



HUMAN LIFE. 

In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down 
and withereth." — Ps. xc. 6. 

I walked the fields at morning's prime, 

The grass was ripe for mowing ; 
The skylark sang his matin chime, 

And all was brightly glowing. 

"And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy, 
His pulse with rapture beating, 
Deems life's inheritance is joy — 
The future proudly greeting." 

I wandered forth at noon: — Alas! 

On earth's maternal bosom 
The scythe had left the withering grass, 

And stretched the fading blossom. 

And thus, I thought, with many a sigh, 

The hopes we fondly cherish, 
Like flowers which blossom but to die. 

Seem only born to perish. 

Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed. 
Through lonely hay-fields musing, 

44* 



514 BARTON. [VICTORIA 

While every breeze that round me played 
Rich fragrance was diffusing. 

The perfumed air, the hush of eve, 

To purer hopes appealing, 
O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve, 

Scattered the balm of healing. 

For thus " the actions of the just," 

When memory hath enshrined them, 
E'en from the dark and silent dust 

Their odor leave behind them. 



SPIRITUAL WORSHIP. 

Though glorious, O God ! must thy temple have been. 

On the day of its first dedication. 
When the cherubim's wings widely waving were seen, 

On high, o'er the ark's holy station ; 

When even the chosen of Levi, though skilled 

To minister standing before Thee, 
Retired from the cloud which the temple then filled. 

And thy glory made Israel adore Thee; 

Though awfully grand was thy majesty then ; 

Yet the worship thy Gospel discloses. 
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men, 

Far surpasses the ritual of Moses, 

And by whom was that ritual forever repealed 

But by Him, unto whom it was given 
To enter the Oracle, where is revealed, 

Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven? — 

Who, having once entered, hath shown us the way, 
O Lord ! how to worship before Thee ; 

Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day, 
But in spirit and truth to adore Thee ! 

This, this is the worship the Saviour made known. 

When she of Samaria found him 
By the patriarch's well sitting weary, alone, 

With the stillness of noontide around Him. 

How sublime, yet how simple, the homage He taught, 

To her who inquired by that fountain, 
If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought, 

Or adored on Samaria's mountain. 

• Woman ! believe me, the hour is near, 

When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, 
Will neither be worshipped exclusively here, 
Nor yet at the altar of Salem. 



BARTON. " 515 



" For God is a spirit ! and thoy who aright 

Would perform the pure worship He loveth, 
In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, 
That spirit the Father approveth." 



time's takings and leavings. 

What does age take away? 
Bloom from the cheek, and lustre from the eye; 

The spirits light and gay, 
Unclouded as the summer's bluest sky. 

What do years steal away? 
The fond heart's idol, Love, that gladdened life; 

Friendship, whose calmer sway 
We trusted to in hours of darker strife. 

What must with time decay? 
Young Hope's wild dreams, and Fancy's visions bright; 

Life's evening sky grows gray. 
And darker clouds prelude Death's coming night. 

But not for such we mourn ! 
We know them frail, and brief their date assigned ; 

Our spirits are forlorn, 
Less from Time's thefts than what he leaves behind. 

What do years leave behind ? 
Unruly passions, impotent desires, 

Distrusts and thoughts unkind, 
Love of the world, and self — which last expires. 

For these, for these we grieve ; 
What Time has robbed us of we know must go : 

But what he deigns to leave. 
Not only finds us poor, but keeps us so. 

It ought not thus to be : 
Nor would it, knew we meek Religion's sway ; 

Her votary's eye could see 
How little Time can give, or take away. 

Faith, in the heart enshrined. 
Would make Time's gifts enjoyed and used, while lent; 

And all it left behind, 
Of Love and Grace, a noble monument. 



A CHRISTIAN IS THE HIGHEST STYLE OF MAN. 

'■'■Homo sum^ hiimani nihil a me alie7ium putol'''' 

A noble thought! and worthy to awake. 

From Rome's proud senate, in her palmy days, 



516 BARTON. [VICTORIA 

Both for the orator's and nature's sake, 
O'erwhelming echoes of accordant praise. 

" I am a man ! and therefore to my heart 
Think nothing human alien e'er can be; 
That sense of union can enough impart 
Of weal or woe to make it dear to me !" 

And, truly, in such bond of brotherhood, 

To those who estimate its hidden might, 
Enough is seen, and felt, and understood, 

For human hearts to own its hallowed right. 

But while I pay my homage to his soul. 

Who thus humanity could broadly scan ; 
And, looking only at their mighty whole. 

Do honor to the natural rights of man ; 

I can but feel — a Christian, by his faith, 
May humbly stand upon yet higher ground; 

And feel to all who live by vital breath 
In a still dearer brotherhood fast bound ! 

Is he a follower of The Crucified — 

The Nazarene — who died that all might live? 

In that one bond of union is implied 

More than the Roman creed could ever give. 

That would but link, by human sympathy. 

The noble speaker to his fellow-man; 
But this makes known a closer unity 

Than proud philosophy had power to scan. 

There needs no more to knit in closest thrall. 
Beyond v/hat Greek or Roman ever knew. 

Than this — " One common Saviour died for all ! 
And rose again — to prove his mission true !'"' 

This, of itself, has a more hallowing leaven 

Than human sympathy can e'er confer; 
Because its loftier hopes are linked with heaven, 

And God's own word is its interpreter ! 

Then chide me not, if, yielding homage due 

Unto the noble Roman's noble thought, 
I hold the humblest Christian's happier view 

As with a higher, holier union fraught. 

Higher — as opening up a loftier line; 

Holier — as springing from a deeper root; 
For LOVE TO Goi) may be pronounced divine, 

When LOVE of Man becomes its genuine fruit! 



1837.] BARTON. 517 



A WORD FOR PEACE. 

Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you : not as the world giveth, 
give I unto you." — St. John xvi. 27. 

If such the legacy bequeathed 

By Jesus to his own ; 
If such his meek injunctions, breathed 

Ere he from earth had flown ; 
How should his lowly followers fight, 
Reading his gracious words aright? 

His kingdom is not of this world ! 

Nor by it understood ; 
The banner from his cross unfurled 

Leads not to acts of blood ! 
The Christian's warfare is within/ 
With pride and passion, self and sin ! 

Whence come your wars, frail worms of dust? 

What are your fightings for 1 
Envy and hatred, greed and lust, 

Which in your members war ! 
Dwells such a dark, unhallowed host 
In temples of the Holy Ghost? 

When angels first, to shepherd's ears. 

Announced the Saviour's birth. 
What watchword did the heavenly spheres 

Pour down on listening earth ? 
Glory to God ! who dwells on high ; 
Toward men — good will and unity ! 

When Christ, on Calvary's blood-stained hill, 

His life a ransom paid. 
What peaceful love, triumphant still, 

Prompted the prayer He prayed ! 
A prayer so tender, brief, and true — 
"Forgive ! they know not what they do .'" 

'Tis by its fruit the tree is known ! 

The test ob" truth is love ! 
Have they, then, reverently shown 

Theirs to their Lord above. 
Who bid their fellow-creatures bleed, 
And by their acts belie their creed? 

Thank God! this gospel truth, no more 

To one small sect confined. 
From sea to sea, from shore to shore. 

Shall flash on many a mind ; 
Till earth below, and heaven above. 
Join in one hymn of peace and lote ! 



518 BARTON. [VICTORIA 



STANZAS TO A FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE. 

The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich ; and he addeth no sorrow with 
it!"— Pro V. x. 22. 

What can I wish thee, gentle friend, 

On this eventful day. 
With being's onward course to blend, 

Thy spirit's strength and stay? 
For on this day there needs must be 
Full many an earnest wish for thee. 

Yet wishes are but idle things, 

As all of us well know ; — 
While prayers may put on angel mngs, 

And higher, heavenward go! 
Since He who condescends to care 
For ALt — still hears and answers prayer. 

But answers it as He deems best, 

Not always as we ask ; 
For deeply be this truth imprest, 

E''en blessings wear a mask ! 
And we are often blinded still 
Unto our REAL good or ill ! 

I, therefore, would not breathe for thee 

A prayer scarce understood ; 
But rather that thy lot may be 

What God sees best of good! 
Good for thee, while a pilgrim here ; 
Good for thee, in a happier sphere. 

Be thine the blessings which His word, 

Replete with truths sublime. 
Instructs us is to be preferred 

To all the things of time ; 
That blessing which true riches brings, 
And addeth none of sorrow's stings ! 

May this, my gentle friend, be thine, 

And his, who shares thy lot; 
Then — whether skies above you shine, 

Or lower — 'twill matter not ; 
For God can temper joy's bright day, 
And smile grief's darkest night away. 

May He remain your rich reward, 

His presence ever near ; 
In jirosperous hours your hearts to guard, 

In adverse ones, to cheer ; 
So shall you own, in grateful mood. 
He can make all things work for good ! 



BARTON. 519 



BRUCE AND THE SPIDER. 

For Scotland's and for freedom's right 

The Bruce his part had play'd, 
In five successive fields of fight 

Been conquer'd and dismay'd : 
Once more against the English host 
His band he led, and once more lost 

The meed for M'hich he fought ; 
And now from battle, faint and worn, 
The homeless fugitive forlorn 

A hut's lone shelter sought. 

And cheerless was that resting place 

For him who claim'd a throne; 
His canopy, devoid of grace. 

The rude, rough beams alone ; 
The heather couch his only bed — 
Yet well, I ween, had slumber fled 

From couch of eider down ! 
Through darksome night till dawn of day, 
Absorb'd in wakeful thought he lay 

Of Scotland and her crown. 

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam 

Fell on that hapless bed. 
And tinged with light each shapeless beam 

Which roof 'd the lowly shed; 
When, looking up with wistful eye, 
The Bruce beheld a spider try 

His filmy thread to fling 
From beam to beam of that rude cot ; 
And well the insect's toilsome lot 

Taught Scotland's future king. 

Six times his gossamery thread 

The wary spider threw; 
In vain the filmy line was sped, 

For powerless or untrue 
Each aim appear'd, and back recoil'd. 
The patient insect, six times foil'd, 

And yet unconquer'd still; 
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye, 
Saw him prepare once more to try 

His courage, strength, and skill. 

One effort more, his seventh and last! 

The hero hail'd the sign ! 
And on the wish 'd- for beam hung fast 

That slender, silken line ; 
Slight as it was, his spirit caught 
The more than omen, for his thought 



520 BARTON. [victoria 

The lesson well could trace, 
Which even " he who runs may read," 
That Perseverance gains its meed, 

And Patience wins the race. 



TO THE SKYLARK. 

Bird of the free and fearless wing, 

Up, up, and greet the sun's first ray. 
Until the spacious welkin ring 

With thy enlivening matin lay: 
I love to track thy heavenward way 

Till thou art lost to aching sight, 
And hear thy numbers blithe and gay, 

Which set to music morning's light. 

Songster of sky and cloud ! to thee 

Hath Heaven a joyous lot assign'd ; 
And thou, to hear those notes of glee, 

Wouldst seem therein thy bliss to find : 
Thou art the first to leave behind 

At day's return this lower earth. 
And, soaring as on wings of wind, 

To spring where light and life have birth. 

Bird of the sweet and taintless hour, 

When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea. 
Ere yet upon the bending flower 

Has lit the busy humming-bee — 
Pure as all nature is to thee — 

Thou, with an instinct half divine, 
Wingest thy fearless flight so free 

Up toward a yet more glorious shrine. 

Bird of the morn ! from thee might man. 

Creation's lord, a lesson take : 
If thou, whose instinct ill may scan 

The glories that around thee break. 
Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake 

To joy and praise — oh ! how much more 
Should mind immortal earth forsake. 

And man look upward to adore! 

Bird of the happy, heavenward song! 

Could but the poet act thy part. 
His soul, upborne on wings as strong 

As thought can give, from earth might start. 
And with a far diviner art 

Than ever genius can supply. 
As thou the ear, might glad the heart, 

And scatter music from the sky. 



1837.] ELLIOTT. 521 



EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 1781—1849. 

Ebenezer Elliott, the celebrated '• Corn- Law Rhymer," was born on 
the 17th of March, 1781, at Masborough, near Rotherham, in Yorkshire, 
where his father was a commercial clerk in the iron- works, with a salary of 
^70 a-year. He is said to have been very dull in his early years, and he was 
so oppressed with a sense of his own deficiencies compared with his bright 
brother, Giles, that he often wept bitterly. Yet who now knows Giles, ex- 
cept as being the brother of Ebenezer ? — a lesson to parents who may have a 
child that seems dull when young, not to despair of him. When he came 
dirty from the foundry, and saw Giles at the counting-house duties, or 
showing his drawings, or reading aloud to an admiring circle, Ebenezer's 
only resource was solitude. Labor, however, and the honor paid to his 
brother, at length led him to make one eflbrt more. He chanced to see in 
the hand of a cousin " Sowerby's English Botany," and was delighted 
with its beautiful colored plates, which, his aunt showed him, might be 
copied by holding them before a pane of glass. Dunce though he seemed, 
he found he could draw, and that with great ease ; and he soon became 
quite an enthusiastic botanist. "The spark smouldering in his mental 
constitution had been kindled. ' Thomson's Seasons,' which he beard his 
wondrous brother Giles read, ' who was beautiful as an angel, while he was 
ugliness itself,' gate him the first hint of the eternal alliance between poetry 
and nature ; and, in fine, the smitten rock opened, and the Rhymer 
rhymed !" 

His next favorite author was Milton, who slowly gave way to Shak- 
speare. But, as he became a poet, he grew more and more ashamed of 
his deficiencies, and applied himself with great assiduity, every leisure mo- 
ment he had, to remedy them. But how much leisure he had, and under 
what great disadvantages he labored, may be gathered from the following 
account which he gives of himself: " From my sixteenth to my twenty- 
third year, I worked for my father at Masbro' as laboriously as any servant 
he had, and without wages, except an occasional shilling or two for pocket- 
money, weighing every morning all the unfinished castings as they were 
made, and afterwards in their unfinished state, besides opening and closing 
the shop in Rotherham, when my brother happened to be ill or absent." 

Elliott entered into business at Rotherham, but was unsuccessful, and, 
in 1821, he removed to Sheffield, and made a second start in life as an iron- 
monger, on a capital of ,£100, which he borrowed. He applied the whole 
strength of his mind to his business, and was eminently successful, and, 
after years of hard labor, he had acquired quite a competency, and built 
himself a good house in the suburbs of Sheffield. When the great com- 
mercial revulsions took place in 1837 and 1838, he lost, as he says, full one- 
third of his savings ; but, in his own words, " I got out of the fracas with 
about jCG,000, which I will try to keep." 

His first publication was " The Vernal Walk," in his seventeenth year. 
45 



5i22 ELLIOTT. [victoria 

This was followed by " Night," which was severely criticised by the 
•' Monthly Review" and the "Monthly Magazine." But this had no 
effect to damp his spirits ; on the contrary, it nerved his pen for higher 
flights, and soon another volume appeared, with a preface of defiance to 
the critics. It had no success, though Southey prophetically consoled the 
poet by writing : " There is power in the least of these tales, but the higher 
you pitch your tune the better you succeed. Thirty years ago they would 
have made your reputation ; thirty years hence the world will wonder they 
did not do so." 

But it was the commercial distresses of 1837 and 1838 that called out the 
strong native talent of our poet. The cry for "cheap bread" rung from 
one end to the other of the land. Elliott took his decided stand for the 
repeal of the corn-laws, and poured forth his " Corn-Law Rhymes," that 
did more than any other one thing to stir the heart and rouse the energies 
of the people against monopoly, and he had the satisfaction, in a few years, 
to see the great object of the " Corn-Law League" fully attained, and free 
trade in bread-stuffs completely established. In 1841, he retired from 
business and from active interference in politics, to spend his last years 
at Great Houghton, near Barnsley, where he built a house upon a small 
estate of his own. After this he wrote and published very little. He had 
been troubled for many years with a disease of an asthmatic character, 
which so_ increased upon him as to be considered dangerous, and he finally 
died on the 1st of December, 1849. 

The venerable poet, James Montgomery, bears strong testimony to 
Elliott's poetic talent: "I am," says he, "quite willing to hazard my 
critical credit, by avowing my persuasion that in originality, power, and 
even beauty, when he chose to be beautiful, he might have measured heads 
beside Byron in tremendous energy, Crabbe in graphic description, and 
Coleridge in effusions of domestic tenderness, while in intense sympathy 
with the poor, in whatever he deemed their wrongs or their sufferings, he 
exceeded them all — and perhaps everybody else among contemporaries — in 
prose or verse. He was, in a transcendental sense, the poet of the poor, 
whom, if not always wisely, I, at least, dare not say he loved too well. His 
personal character, his fortunes, and his genius would require, as they de- 
serve, a full investigation, as furnishing an extraordinary study of human 
nature." 

In the following singular piece, we have a key to many of the Rhymer's 
rhymes. It is the complaint of a heart breaking for want of human sym- 
pathy, and taking hold, in the yearnings of its tender nature, upon house- 
hold pets where there are no home companions : — 



POOR ANDREW. 

The loving poor ! — So envy calls 

The ever-toiling poor; 
But oh ! I choke, my heart grows faint. 

When I approach my door ! 



ELLIOTT. " 523 

Behind it there are Jiving things, 

Whose silent frontlets say 
They'd rather see me out than in — 

Feet foremost borne away ! 
My heart grows sick when home I come — 

May God the thought forgive ! 
If 'twere not for my cat and dog, 

I thinlc I could not live. 

My cat and dog, when I come home, 

Run out to welcome me — 
She mewing, with her tail on end. 

While wagging his comes he. 
They listen for my homeward steps, 

My smothered sob they hear. 
When down my heart sinks, deathly down, 

Because my home is near. 
My heart grows faint when home I come — 

May God the thought forgive! 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 

I think I could not live. 

I'd rather be a happy bird, 

Than, scorned and loathed, a king ; 
But man should live while for him lives 

The meanest loving thing. 
Thou busy bee ! how canst thou choose 

So far and wide to roam? 
Oh blessed bee ! thy glad wings say 

Thou hast a happy home ! 
But I, when I come home — oh God ! 

Wilt thou the thought forgive? 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 

I think I could not; live. 

Why come they not ? They do not come 

My breaking heart to meet ! 
A heavier darkness on me falls — 

I cannot lift my feet. 
Oh yes, they come! — they never fail 

To listen for my sighs; 
My poor heart brightens when it meets 

The sunshine of their eyes. 
Again they come to meet me — God! 

Wilt thou the thought forgive? 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 

I think I could not live. 

This heart is like a churchyard stone ; 

My home is comfort's grave; 
My playful cat and honest dog 

Are all the friends I have ; 
And yet my house is filled with friends — 

But foes they seem, and are. 



524 ELLIOTT. [VICTORIA 

What makes them hostile? Igjjohance; 

Then let me not despair. 
But oh ! I sigh when home I come — 

May God the thought forgive! 
If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 

I think I could not live. 

In the following piece, we see the hostility of ignorance overcome. The 
cat and dog are replaced by human beings, and the home of taste is the 
home of happiness: — 



THE HOME OF TASTE. 

Yon seek the home of taste, and find 

The proud mechanic there, 
Kich as a king, and less a slave, 

Throned in his elbow-chair! 
Or on his sofa reading Locke, 

Beside his open door! 
Why start? — why en\y worth like his? 

The carpet on his floor 1 

You seek the home of sluttery — 

" Is John at home ?" you say. 
'' No, sir ; he's at the ' Sportsman's Arms ;' 

The dog-fight 's o'er the way." 
Oh lift the workman's heart and mind 

Above low sensual sin! 
Give him a home ! the home of taste ! 

Outbid the house of gin ! 

Oh give him taste ! it is the link 

Which binds us to the skies — 
A bridge of rainbows thrown across 

The gulf of tears and sighs; 
Or like a widower's little one — 

An angel in a child — 
That leads him to her mother's chair, 

And shows him how she smiled. 



SATURDAY. 

To-morrow will be Sunday, Ann — 
Get up, my child, with me ; 

Thy father rose at four o'clock 
To toil for me and thee. 

The fine folks use the plate he makes, 
And praise it when they dine; 

For John has taste — so we'll be neat, 
Although we can't be fine. 



1837.] ELLIOTT. 525 

Tlien let us shake the carpet well, 

And wash and scour the floor, 
And hang the weather-glass he made 

Beside the cupboard-door. 

And polish thou the grate, my love ; 

I'll mend the sofa arm ; 
The autumn winds blow damp and chill ; 

And John loves to be warm. 

And bring the new white curtain out, 

And string the pink tape on — 
Mechanics should be neat and clean; 

And I'll take heed for John. 

And brush the little table, child. 

And fetch the ancient books — 
John loves to read, and when he reads, 

How like a king he looks ! 

And fill the music-glasses up 

With M'ater fresh and clear ; 
To-morrow, when he sings and plays. 

The street will stop to hear. 

And throw the dead flowers from the vase. 

And rub it till it glows ; 
For in the leafless garden yet 

He'll find a winter rose. 

And lichen from the wood he'll bring, 

And mosses from the dell ; 
And from the sheltered stubble-field 

The scarlet pimpernell. 

" All this preparation is made for the father of the family, the poor me- 
chanic, who has got to the end of his week of toil, and is coming — home ! 
not to look like a king, but to be a king for two nights and a day. Do 
we say the poor mechanic? Why, there is no king in Europe so rich ! 
He has earned his otium cum dig7iitate (which they have not) ; it is his 
right, not inherited from dead men, but the achievement of his own power 
and will; and for the bows, and grimaces, and lip-service of hollow cour- 
tiers, he is surrounded by loving looks, and sympathizing hearts, and 
willing hands." 



RUB OR RUST. 

Idler, why lie down to die? 

Better rub than rust. 
Hark! the lark sings in the sky — 

"Die when die thou must! 
Day is waking, leaves are shaking 

Better rub than rust." 

45* 



526 ELLIOTT. [victoria 

In. the grave there 's sleep enough — 

" Better rub than rust : 
Death, perhaps, is hunger-proof, 

Die when die thou must; 
Men are mowing, breezes blowing, 

Better rub than rust." 

He who will not work shall want ; 

Naught for naught is just — 
Won't do, must do, when he can't ; 

" Better rub than rust. 
Bees are flying, sloth is dying. 

Better rub than rust.-' 



THE PRESS. 

God said — "Let there be light!" 
Grim darkness felt his might. 
And fled away ; 
Then startled seas and mountains cold 
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold. 

And cried — " 'Tis day ! 'tis day !" 
"Hail, holy light !" exclaimed 
The thundrous cloud that flamed 
O'er daisies white; 
And lo ! the rose, in crimson dress'd, 
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast; 

And, blushing, murmur'd — " Light !' 
Then was the skylark born ; 
Then rose the embattled corn ; 
Then floods of praise 
Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon ; 
And then, in stillest night, the moon 

Pour'd forth her pensive lays. 
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad ! 
Lo, trees and flowers, ail clad 
In glory, bloom ! 
And shall the mortal sons of God 
Be senseless as the trodden clod, 

And darker than the tomb? 
No, by the mind of man ! 
By the swart artisan ! 
By God, our sire ! 
Our souls have holy light within; 
And every form of grief and sin 

Shall see and feel its fire. 
By earth, and hell, and heaven. 
The shroud of souls is riven ! 
Mind, mind alone 
Is light, and hope, and life, and power! 
Earth's deepest night, from this blessed hour. 
The night of minds, is gone ! 



ELLIOTT. . 527 



" The Press!" all lands shall sing; 
The Press, the Press we bring, 
All lands to bless : 
O pallid Want ! O Labor stark ! 
Behold we bring the second ark ! 

The Press ! the Press ! the Press ! 



FOREST WORSHIP. 

Within the sun-lit forest. 

Our roof the bright bine sky, 
Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow. 

We lift our hearts on high; 
Beneath the frown of wicked men 

Our country's strength is bowing; 
But, thanks to God, they can't prevent 

The lone wild flowers from blowing! 

High, high above the tree-tops, 

The lark is soaring free; 
Where streams the light through broken clouds 

His speckled breast I see ; 
Beneath the might of wicked men 

The poor man's worth is dying ; 
But, thank'd be God, in spite of them. 

The lark still warbles flying ! 

The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us!" 

"Lord, bless us !" echo cries ; 
Amen !" the breezes murmur low ; 

"Amen!" the rill replies: 
The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts 

The proud with pangs are paying ; 
But here, O God of earth and heaven ! 

The humble heart is praying ! 

How sofdy in the pauses 

Of song, re-echoed wide, 
The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, 

O'er rill and river glide ! 
With evil deeds of evil men 

The affi-ighted land is ringing; 
But still, O Lord ! the pious heart 

And soul-toned voice are singing ! 

Hush ! hush ! the preacher preacheth : 

" Woe to the oppressor, woe !" 
But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun 

And sadden'd flowers below; 
So frowns the Lord ! — but, tyrants, ye 

Deride his indignation, 
And see not in the gather'd brow 

Your days of tribulation ! 



628 ELLIOTT. [VICTORIA 

Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher! 

The tempest bursts above : 
God whispers in the thunder : hear 

The terrors of his love ! 
On useful hands, and honest hearts, 

The base their wrath are wreaking ; 
But, thank'd be God ! they can't prevent 

The storm of heaven from speaking. 



FLOWERS FOR THE HEART- 

Flowers ! winter flowers ! — the child is dead, 

The mother cannot speak : 
Oh softly couch his little head, 

Or Mary's heart will break ! 
Amid those curls of flaxen hair 

This pale pink ribbon twine, 
And on the little bosom there 

Place this wan lock of mine. 
How like a form in cold white stone, 

The coffin'd infant lies! 
Look, mother, on thy little one! 

And tears will fill thine eyes. 
She cannot weep — more faint she grows, 

More deadly pale and still : 
Flowers ! oh, a flower ! a winter rose, 

That tiny hand to fill. 
Go, search the fields! the lichen wet 

Bends o'er the unfailing well ; 
Beneath the furrow lingers yet 

The scarlet pimpernel. 
Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower. 

Where never froze the spring ? 
A daisy ? Ah ! bring childhood's flower ! 

The half-blown daisy bring ! 
Yes, lay the daisy's little head 

Beside the little cheek; 
Oh haste ! the last of five is dead ! 

The childless cannot speak! 



SLEEP. 

Sleep ! to the homeless, thou art home; 

The friendless find in thee a friend; 
And well is he, where'er he roam. 

Who meets thee at his journey's end. 
Thy stillness is the planet's speed ; 

Thy weakness is unmeasured might ; 



1837.] ELLIOTT. 529 

Sparks from the hoof of death's pale steed — 

Worlds flash and perish in ihy sight. 
The daring will to thee alone — 

The will and power are given to thee — 
To lift the veil of the unknown, 

The curtain of eternity — 
To look uncensiired, though unbidden, 
On marvels from the seraph hidden ! 
Alone to be — where none have been ! 
Alone to see — what none have seen ! 
And to astonish'd reason tell 
The secrets of the Unsearchable ! 



THE GRINDER.^ 

Where toils the mill, by ancient woods embraced, 
Hark how the cold steel screams in hissing fire! 
But Enoch sees the grinder's wheel no more, 
Couched beneath rocks and forests, that admire 
Their beauty in the waters, ere they roar, 
Dash'd in white foam, the swift circumference o'er. 
There draws the grinder his laborious breath ; 
There, coughing, at his deadly trade he bends. 
Born to die young, he fears nor man nor death ; 
Scorning the future, what he earns he spends; 
Debauch and riot are his bosom friends. 
He plays the Tory, sultan-like and well: 
Woe to the traitor that dares disobey 
The Dey of Straps ! as rattan'd tools shall tell. 
Full many a lordly freak by night, by day, 
Illustrates gloriously his lawless sway. 

» " A grinder sits on a block of wood, which he calls his grinding-horse, 
and his grindstone is before him, turned on an axle by steam or water. To 
this he applies the article to be ground, and a spray of fire rises at every touch. 
But the tire is not the worst. The grindstone itself wears away m the foam- 
like surges that fill the lungs, and in a certain number of years, calculated by 
statistics to a nicely, kill the principle of life. A dry-grinder does not reach 
thirty-five, but a wet-grinder may defy death for nearly ten years more. Of 
the tbrmer is the grinder of table-knives — of the latter the grinder of table- 
forks. See what a trifle involves ten years of a man's life ! We do not think, 
while sitting at table, that the knives and forks before us are gmlty of more 
human blood than swords and spears ! Why should we ? The men them- 
selves — and they number between two and three thousand in ShetReld — lU'e 
their fate rather than otherwise. This is a fact proved by the ' Report of 
Government Commissioners,' and alluded to in the poem; for the Abraham 
and Elliot named there were the inventors of a preservative which the grind- 
ers will not use, although it is nothing more than a flue introduced into the 
wheel to carry off the dust. The men insist on their trade retaining its fatal 
noxiousness, because, if this were removed, there would be a greater com- 
petition of hands, their high wages would come down, and their deep drinking 
be cut short." 



530 ELLIOTT. [\t:ctorta 

Behold his failings! hath he virtues too? 

He is no pauper, blackguard though he be. 

Full well he knows what minds combined can do — 

Full well maintains his birthright — he is free ! 

And, frown for frown, outstares monoiDoiy! 

Yet Abraham and Elliot, both in vain, 

Bid science on his cheek prolong the bloom ; 

He ivill not live 1 he seems in haste to gain 

The undisturbed asylum of the tomb, 

And, old at two-aiid-thirty, meets his doom ! 



APOSTROPHE TO FUTURITY. 

Ye rocks! ye elements! thou shoreless main, 

In wliose blue depths, worlds, ever voyaging. 

Freighted with life and death, of fate complain! 

Things of immutability ! ye bring 

Thoughts that with terror and with sorrow wring 

The human breast. Unchanged, of sad decay 

And deathless change ye speak, like prophets old, 

Foretelling evil's ever-present day ; 

And, as when Horror lays his finger cold. 

Upon the heart in dreams, appal the bold. 

O thou Futurity ! our hope and dread, 

Let me unveil thy features, fair or foul ! 

Thou who shalt see the grave untenanted. 

And commune with the re-embodied soul ! 

Tell me thy secrets, ere thy ages roll 

Their deeds, that yet shall be on earth, in heaven, 

And in deep hell, where rabid hearts with pain 

Must purge their plagues, and learn to be forgiven ! 

Show me the beauty that shall fear no stain. 

And still, through age-long years, unchanged remain ! 

As one who dreads to raise the pallid sheet 

Which shrouds the beautiful and tranquil face 

That yet can smile, but never more shall meet, 

"With kisses warm, his ever fond embrace ; 

So I draw nigh to thee, with timid pace. 

And tremble, though I long to lift thy veil. 



A POET S PRAYER. 

Almighty Father ! let thy lowly child. 

Strong in his love of truth, be wisely bold — 

A patriot bard, by sycophants reviled, 

Let him live usefully, and not die old ! 

Let poor men's children, pleased to read his lays, 

Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath been. 



1837.] JEFrREY. 531 

And when he ends his pilgrimage of days, 

Let him be buried where the grass is green, 

Where daisies, blooming earliest, linger late 

To hear the bee his busy note prolong: 

There let him slumber, and in peace await 

The dawning morn, far from the sensual throng, 

Who scorn the windflower's blush, the redbreast's lonely song. 

Elliott's publications are — 1, " Corn-Law Rhymes ;" 2, " Love, a 
Poem;" 3, "The Village Patriarch," a poem; 4, "Poetical Works;" 
5, "More Verse and Prose by the Corn-Law Rhymer," in two volumes. 
The last, though prepared by the poet himself, is aposthumous publication.* 



FRANCIS JEFFREY, 1773—1850. 

» 

Francis (Lord) Jeffrey, the great Coryphaeus of English critics, was 
born in the city of Edinburgh on the 23d of Oetober, 1771. He was the 
eldest son of Mr. George Jeffrey, who, being bred to the law, had attained 
to the position of clerk of sessions. From his infancy he evinced the 
greatest quickness of apprehension and lively curiosity ; and could read 
well when only in his fourth year. He was sent to the High School of 
Edinburgh in 1781, where he remained six years. He then went to the 
University of Glasgow, where he had the benefit of the instruction of some 
of the best professors in the kingdom. He stayed there, however, but two 
sessions, when in 1791 he entered Queen's College, Oxford. But the at- 
mosphere of Oxford did not agree with his Scottish tastes and feelings, and 
he remained there but one session, when he returned to Edinburgh, and re- 
sumed his legal studies. 

In December, 1792, Mr. Jeffrey became a member of the " Speculative 
Society" — an extra-academical school of oratory and debate, and of literary 
composition, connected with the University of Edinburgh. On this intel- 
lectual arena he met and contended with Walter Scott, Henry Brougham, 
James Mackintosh, Francis Horner, John Archibald Murray, and others, 
who afterwards became distinguished in the literary or poUtical world ; 
and through life he delighted to recall his connection with this society, 
which, while it had contributed greatly to his pleasure, had done so much 
to prepare him for the higher contests of the world. In December, 1794, 
he was called to the bar, and applied himself with his usual energy to his 
profession. But success in the law is seldom attained until after years of 
dreary toil and perseverance, and Mr. Jeffrey wrote to his brother so late 
as 1803 that he had not made £100 in any one year by his profession. In 

» Read a good article on Elliott in " Chambers' Papers for the People,"«voL 
i. to which I am much indebted for the above notice. 



532 JEFFREY. [VICTORIA 

1801 he was married to Miss Catherine Wilson, daughter of the Rev. 
Charles Wilson, Professor of Ecclesiastical History in St. Mary's College, 
St. Andrews. 

It was obvious that the intellectual activity of Jeffrey and his associates, 
urged by ambition and conscious power, could not long be restrained within 
the narrow professional channels to which it was then confined. Their 
social circle received a valuable addition, in 1797, by the arrival in Edin- 
burgh of the Rev, Sydney Smith, who, in the preface to his Essays, has 
given some account of his genial associates, and of the establishment of 
the "Edinburgh Review."^ Of this event, so important in our author's life, 
and which in its results placed him at the head of the literary world, I 
will give his own account, somewhat abridged, as communicated to Mr. 
Robert Chambers, in November, 1846. 

"I cannot say, exactly, where the project of the ' Edinburgh Review' 
was first talked of among the proprietors. But the first serious consulta- 
tions about it — and which led to our application to a publisher — were held 
in a small house where I then lived, in Buccleuch Place. They were at- 
tended by Sydney Smith, F. Horner, Dr. Thomas Brown, Lord Murray, 
and some of them also by Lord Webb Seymour, Dr. John Thomso#, and 
Thomas Thomson. The first three numbers were given to the publisher — 
he taking the risk, and de^jaying the charges. There was then no indi- 
vidual editor, but as many of us as could be got to attend used to meet in 
a dingy room of Wilson's printing- office, in Craig's Close, where the proofs 
of our own articles were read over and remarked upon, and attempts made 
also to sit in judgment on the few manuscripts which were then offered by 
strangers. But we had seldom patience to go through with this; and it 
was soon found necessary to have a responsible editor, and the office was 
pressed upon me."^ 

' See the account in the biography of Sydney Smith, page 473. 

2 That most liberal and enterprising publisher, Archibald Constable — the 
Mgecenas of Scottish authors — remunerated the editor on a scale of princely 
liberality. From 1803 to 1809, a sum of two hundred guineas was given for 
editing each number : and from 1813 to 1826, seven hundred pounds a number. 
The fraternity of critics were, Sydney Smith, then thirty-four years old; 
Jeffrey, twenty-nine ; Dr. Thomas Brown, twenty-four ; Horner, twenty-four ; 
Brougham, twenty-three; Allen, thirty-two; Dr. John Thomson, thirty-eight; 
and Thomas Thomson, thirty-two. The following fine remarks on the influ- 
ence of this journal are from Stanton's "Reforms and Reformers of Great 
Britain and Ireland :" " In estimating the literary influences which have con- 
tributed to the cause of Progress and Reform in Great Britain, during the pre- 
sent centurj"-, a high place should be assigned to the ' Edinburgh Review.' 

" This celebrated periodical appeared at an era when independence of 
thought and manlmess of utterance had almost ceased from the public journals 
and councils of the kingdom. The terrors of the French Revolution had ar- 
rested the march of liberal opinions. The declamation of Burke and the am- 
bition of Napoleon had frightened the isle from its propriety. Tooke had 
barely escaped the gallows through the courageous eloquence of Erskine. 
Fox had withdrawn from the contest in despair, and cherished in secret the 
fires of freedom, to burst forth in happier times. 

" Previous to 1802, the literary periodicals of Great Britain were mere repo- 
sitofies of miscellanies, relating to art, poetry, letters, and gossip, partly ori- 



1837.] JEFFREY. 533 

The first number of the "Edinburgh Review" appeared on the 1st of 
November, 1802. The number of copies printed was seven hundred and 
fifty. The demand, however, exceeded this limited supply : seven hundred 
and fifty more were thrown off, and successive editions, still more nume- 
rous, were called for. In 1808, the quarterly circulation had risen to about 
nine thousand: it is thought to have reached its maximum about 1813, when 
twelve or thirteen thousand copies w^ere printed. 

" Never again perhaps will one generation of critics have such a splendid 
harvest to reap — such a magnificent vintage to gather in. Could the editor 
have surveyed the thirty years' produce that lay before him, awaiting his 
critical distribution, he must have been overwhelmed by its prodigality and 
richness. There was the poetry of Crabbe, of Campbell, Moore, Southey, 
Coleridge, and Wordsworth — types of different schools ; there was the 
gorgeous chivalry of Scott, with his long file of novels and romances, like 
an endless procession of the representatives of all ages, conditions, and 
countries; there was the oriental splendor and grace of Byron, alternat- 
ing with his fierce energy and gloomy philosophy — the still more erring 
and extravagant genius of Shelley — and the youthful bloom of Keats ; 
there were the tales of Maria Edgeworth, of Miss Austen, Gait, Wilson, 
and other not unworthy associates; the histories of Hallam, and the his- 
torical pictures of Macaulay ; innumerable biographies of great contempo- 
raries who had gone before — the Sheridans, Currans, Wilberforces, and 
Hebers ; innumerable books of travels, that threw open the world to our 

ginal and partly selected, huddled together without system, and making up a 
medley as varied and respectable as a iirst class weekly newspaper of the pre- 
sent day. The criticisms of books were jejune in the extreme, consisting 
chiefly of a few smart witticisms, and meagre connecting remarks, stringing 
together ample quotations from the work under review. They rarely ventured 
into deep water on philosophical subjects, and as seldom pushed out upon the 
tempestuous sea of political discussion. Perhaps one or two journals might 
plead a feeble exception to the general rule ; but the mass was weary, stale, 
fiat, and unprofitable. 

"The 'Edinburgh Review' appeared. It bounded into the arena without 
the countenance of birth or station, without the imprimatur of the universities 
or literary clubs. Its avowed mission was to erect a higher standard of merit, 
and secure a bolder style and a purer taste in literature, and to apply philoso- 
phical principles and the maxims of truth and humanity to politics, aiming to 
be the manual of the scholar, the monitor of the statesman. As in its advent it 
had asked permission of no one to be, so as to its future course it asked no advice 
as to what it should do. Soliciting no quarter, promising no favors, its inde- 
pendent bearing and defiant tone broke the spell which held the mind of a nation 
in fetters. Its first number revived the discussion of great political principles. 
The splendid diction and searching philosophy of an essay on the causes and 
consequences of the French Revolution at once arrested the public eye, and 
stamped the character of the journal. Pedants in the pulpit, and scribblers of 
Rosa-Matilda verses in printed albums, saw, from other articles in the mani- 
festo, that exterminating war was declared on their inanities and sentimentali- 
ties. The new journal -xfras perused with avidity, and produced a sensation in 
all classes of readers, exciting admiration and envy, love and hatred, defiance 
and fear. It rapidly obtained a large circulation, steadily rose to the highest 
position ever attained by any similar publication, reigned supreme in an empire 
of its own creation for a third of a century, accomplishing vast good mingled 
with no inconsiderable evil." 

46 



534 JEFFREY. [victoria 

curious gaze ; the gossiping treasures of Strawberry Hill and other 
family repositories, that revived the wits, and poets, and beauties of a 
past age ; the diaries of Evelyn and Pepys ; the inimitable letters of 
Cowper drawn from their sacred privacy ; the policy and intrigues of 
courts laid bare ; the whole world of literature and the living world of 
Europe stirred to their inmost depths. What rich materials in the wars 
and politics of the times — in the rise and fall of Napoleon — in the over- 
throw of kings and dynasties — in the perturbations even of the mighty 
heart of England throbbing to be free ! What discoveries in science and 
the arts — steam, gas, railways, and all that facilitates and sweetens social 
intercourse ! Over such vast and interesting fields had the ' Edinburgh 
Review' to travel, moving firmly under the guidance of its editor, with 
elate and confident step, and attended by thousands who caught its enthu- 
siasm, and echoed its sentiments and opinions. 

" We have traced some of the circumstances which imparted interest and 
novelty to the plan of the ' Review.' Its grand distinction, however, and 
the genuine source of its success, was the ability and genius it displayed, 
coupled with the perfect independence and boldness of the writers. Within 
the small circle of its projectors were men qualified to deal with questions 
in physical science, in political economy (the chosen field of Horner), in 
politics (the favorite ground of Brougham), in law, poetry, and the belles 
lettres. They had wit, irony, and sarcasm at will, with the higher attri- 
butes of eloquence, correct principles of reasoning and analysis, strong 
sense, and a love of freedom. They were free from all external restraint ; 
they were young, and had both fortune and reputation to achieve. To give 
consistency and stability to the scheme, the editor labored with unceasing 
attention and judgment. No other member of the fraternity could have 
supplied his place. His own contributions were also from the first the 
most popular and efTective in the work. He selected the departments of 
poetry, biography, and moral philosophy, with occasional excursions into 
the neighboring domains of history and politics. The first number of the 
' Review' displayed the leading characteristics of his style and manner. 
It could not show the whole extent and richness of the vein, but we saw 
its peculiar quality, and could form an estimate of its probable value. The 
opening paper is a critique on the now-forgotten work of M. Mounier on 
the ' Causes of the French Revolution,' and it is distinguished by great 
ability in tracing and comparing political events, and trying them by the 
tests of history and philosophy. Some of the reviewers' distinctions and 
illustrations are very happy, and a high moral tone is preserved throughout 
the whole. This first effort is a key-note to much of Jeffrey's reasoning, and 
to his clear and pointed expression. Subsequently his style became more 
loose and oratorical, from his increased practice at the bar, and the haste 
with which he wrote many of his reviews ; but it gained also in power and 
copiousness. To the state of society and literdTure in France at this 
period he paid much attention ; and his admirable articles on Marmontel, on 
Grimm, on Madame du Duffand, &c., are invaluable for the moral lessons 
they inculcate, and the earnestness with which the importance of our social 
and domestic duties is portrayed and recommended. The reviewer pene- 



1837.] JEFFREY. 535 

trated through the gaiety and glitter of the salons of Paris, and showed 
how little of real worth or of real happiness was contained amidst all their 
splendor. He delighted to expatiate on the superiority of those humble 
virtues which are of daily use and benefit, which brighten the domestic 
hearth, and shed contentment and joy on all the private and ordinary rela- 
tions of life. And in this respect the example of the critic was in beautiful 
accordance with his precepts. He was the most affectionate relation—' not 
in the least ambitious of new or distinguished acquaintances, nor by any 
means fond of large parties or the show and bustle of life ; there was no one 
to whom all the charities of home and kindred were more endeared.'^ 

" In his disquisitions on the old masters of our literature, Jeffrey did good 
service. His reviews of the writers of the Elizabethan age and of later 
periods are generally excellent. He revelled among the creations of Shak- 
speare, Massinger, and Beaumont and Fletcher, and dwelt with cordial de- 
light on the ornate graces of Jeremy Taylor or Sir Thomas Browne, as on 
the milder charms of Addison, the sweep of Dryden's versification, and the 
pointed brilliancy of Pope. The modern revival of a taste for those great 
authors may be partly ascribed to the ' Edinburgh Review.' And for the 
critic's severity in assailing those on the lower slopes of Parnassus who 
departed from such models, he had this excuse — that he conceived it to be 
his duty to punish all sins of irregularity and conceit, that he might keep 
the public taste from corruption, and reform the oflTender. He had another 
apology common to periodical writers, and which, in his genial frankness 
and acknowledged supremacy, he could afford to produce. When recant- 
ing some of his strictures on the character of Burns, he said — 'A certain 
tone of exaggeration is incident, we fear, to the sort of writing in which we 
are engaged. Reckoning a little too much, perhaps, on the dulness of our 
readers, we are often unconsciously led to overstate our sentiments in order 
to make them understood; and when a little controversial warmth is added 
to a little love of effect, an excess of coloring is apt to steal over the 
ranvas, which ultimately offends no eye so much as our own.' He seems 
also to have aimed at blending a conversational freedom and carelessness 
with his criticisms, as if ambitious, like Congreve, to be more of the gentle- 
man than the author. This contributed to the tone of superiority which 
the ' Review' assumed from its commencement, and which the suffering 
authors felt to be peculiarly galling. It unquestionably made the articles 
more piquant ; and when the reviewer rose above the conventional level, 
the contrast afforded by his finer passages was the more conspicuous and 
effective. If he had been more profound in imagination or feeling, he must 
have lost some of that airy elegance, and fancy, and spontaneous grace, 
which contributed so much to his success. Another distinctive quality was 
the great taste with which Jeffrey made selections from the works he 
reviewed. Whatever was new or striking, solemn, picturesque, or figura- 
tive in language or matter, was sure to be extracted. The finest scenes in 
a new novel, the best passages of a poem, a book of travels, or a work of 
biography, were generally to be found in the 'Edinburgh Review,' and 

* Memoir and Correspondence of Mrs. Grant, of Laggan. 



536 JEFFREY. [victoria 

the criticism with which the whole was linked together, or the manner in 
which the plot was described by the acute and lively critic, rivalled, if it 
did not excel, the work of the author. The setting was as precious as the 
jewels." 

During all the time that Mr. Jeffrey was editing the " Review" — exerting 
an influence in the republic of letters more commanding and more wide- 
spread in both hemispheres than any other man that ever lived — he was 
steadily advancing in his practice at the bar, and gaining a reputation 
as a lawyer second only to his reputation as a critic. In 1820, he was 
elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and in 1829 he was 
chosen Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, an honor unanimously conferred 
upon him by his brethren of the bar, and which was justly regarded not only 
as a token of personal confidence and respect, but as an unequivocal recog- 
nition of his having reached the summit of his profession as an advocate. On 
his election to this office, he resigned the editorship of the " Edinburgh 
Review" into the hands of Mr. Macvey Napier. 

The year 1830 brought Mr. Jeffrey prominently into public life, by his 
being appointed Lord Advocate — the prime minister for Scotland — in the 
administration of Earl Grey. He accepted the office with sincere reluctance, 
for he had to leave the retirement of private life, in which he had his chief 
solace and delight. He was elected to Parliament, and took his seat in the 
House of Commons in February, 1831, and remained a member for more 
than three years. Here he barely sustained his former reputation, but did 
not add to it ; and though he delivered a brilliant speech in favor of the 
Reform Bill, he made no attempt to shine as a debater. 

On his retirement from political life, he was welcomed again to the 
Supreme Court of his country by all the legal profession and by the public ; 
for all had confidence in his learning, his discernment, and his industry, 
as well as his inflexible moral principles. His judicial labors were relieved 
by his unabated love of literature. He contributed a few articles to his 
early love, the "Edinburgh," including critiques on the lives of Mack- 
intosh and Wilberforce ; and at length he consented to a publication of 
a selection from the whole of his contributions, similar collections hav- 
ing been made and published with great success from the writings of 
Macaulay and Sydney Smith. The work appeared in 1844, in four vol- 
umes, being only about a third of what he had actually written for the 
' Review.' 

" The great critic thus realized all he aspired to, and much more. He 
made good his claim to ' titles manifold.' His four volumes, though not con- 
taining all his most original or striking essays, are a repertory of sound and 
valuable maxims, fine conceptions, and correct definitions. The actual 
writings, however, afford no just criterion of the benefits which Jeffrey 
conferred upon his country. Who can calculate the impulse which he gave 
to thought and opinion, to the whole current of our literature, to correct 
principles of taste and reasoning, to enlarged views of government, of pub- 
lic duty, and private morality ! Much that is valuable and instrumental in 
periodical writing perishes in their use. The arguments necessary to help 
on any great cause become to a certain extent superfluous and antiquated 



1837.] JEFFREY. 537 

when that cause, is won, as elementary dissertations on law or morals 
cease to interest in an advanced state of society. During his twenty- six 
years of active duty as editor and reviewer, Jeffrey had stored the public 
mind with principles and opinions which we have seen reduced to practice, 
and which no party would now dispute, but which were violently assailed 
when presented in the pages of the ' Edinburgh Review.' To appreciate 
him aright, we must go back to the times in which he wrote, when literary 
criticism was low and servile, and political independence a rare and dan- 
gerous quality — when he had to contend with discouragements on every 
hand, and to inspire or cherish the taste and feelings of which we now reap 
the advantages. Some of the reviews in his collected works, devoted 
entirely to political questions— to Ireland, the nature of our relations with 
America, the state of parties in England, and the subjects of parliamentary 
reform and criminal jurisprudence — are solid and valuable constitutional 
treatises. He not merely lightens on the subject — he reasons closely on it, 
and is logical as well as brilUant." 

During the latter years of Lord Jeffrey's life, though his health had been 
shaken by several severe attacks, his cheerfulness and clearness of intel- 
lect were undiminished. He scarcely seemed old at seventy-six. Recent 
circumstances had revived his interest in the " Edinburgh Review." His 
only child, a daughter, was married to Mr. Empson, professor of law in 
East India College, at Haileybury ; and in 1847, on the death of Mr. 
Macvey Napier, Mr. Empson succeeded^to the editorship of that journal, 
from which his illustrious relative had derived such solid and lasting honors. 
He occasionally employed a leisure hour in aiding the editor until within one 
week of his death, and sat in court even within four days of it. On return- 
ing from the court on Tuesday, January 26, 1850, he complained of a slight 
accession of cold : fever ensued, and on the succeeding Saturday, while 
his medical attendant was in the act of feeling his pulse, life became extinct. 
" He was mourned deeply and widely with no common sorrow. He had 
Uved and died among his own people ; and his native country, amidst her 
grief, rejoiced, and will long rejoice — in his fame."' 



THE PERISHABLE NATURE OF A POET S FAME. 

Next to the impression of the vast fertility, compass, and beauty 
of our English poetry, the reflection that recurs most frequently 
and forcibly to us, in accompanying Mr. Campbell through his 
wide survey, is the perishable nature of poetical fame, and the 
speedy oblivion that has overtaken so many of the promised heirs 
of immortality. Of near two hundred and fifty authors, whose 
works are cited in these volumes,^ by far the greater part of whom 

* Read a very interesting sketch of his life in " Chambers' Papers for the 
People," — the last article in the second volume. 

^ Campbell's "Specimens of British Poets," from a review of which in 
the "Edinburgh Review," this extract is taken. 

46* 



538 JEFFREY. [VICTORIA 

were celebrated in their generation, there are not thirty who now 
enjoy anything that can be called popularity — whose works are 
to be found in the hands of ordinary readers — in the shops of 
ordinary booksellers — or in the press for republication. About 
fifty more may be tolerably familiar to men of taste or literature — 
the rest slumber on the shelves of collectors, and are partially 
known to a few antiquaries and scholars. 

Now, the fame of a poet is popular, or nothing. He does not 
address himself, like the man of science, to the learned, or those 
who desire to learn, but to all mankind; and his purpose being 
to delight and to be praised, necessarily extends to all who can 
receive pleasure, or join in applause. It is strange, and somewhat 
humiliating, to see how great a proportion of tho»e who had once 
fought their way successfully to distinction, and surmounted the 
rivalry of contemporary envy, have again sunk into neglect. We 
have great deference for public opinion ; and readily admit that 
nothing but what is good can be permanently popular. But while 
we would foster all that it bids to live, we would willingly revive 
much that it leaves to die. The very multiplication of works of 
amusement necessarily withdraws many from notice that deserve 
to be kept in remembrance, &r we should soon find it labor, and 
not amusement, if we were obliged to make use of them all, or 
even to take all upon trial. 

As the materials of enjoyment and instruction accumulate 
around us, more and more must thus be daily rejected and left to 
waste : for while our tasks lengthen, our lives remain as short as 
ever; and the calls on our time multiply, while our time itself is 
flying swiftly away. This superfluity and abundance of our trea- 
sures, therefore, necessarily renders much of them worthless ; and 
the veriest accidents may, in such a case, determine what part 
shall be preserved, and what thrown away and neglected. When 
an army is decimated, the very bravest may fall; and many poets, 
worthy of eternal remembrance, have been forgotten, merely be- 
cause there was not room in our memories for all. 

By such a work as the " Specimens,'^ however, this injustice 
of fortune may be partly redressed — some small fragments of an 
immortal strain may still be rescued from oblivion — and a wreck 
of a name preserved, which time appeared to have swallowed up 
forever. There is something pious, we think, and endearing, in 
the office of thus gathering up the ashes of renown that has passed 
away ; or rather, of calling back the departed life of a transitory 
glow, and enabling those great spirits which seemed to be laid 
forever, still to draw a tear of pity, or a throb of admiration, from 
the hearts of a forgetful generation. The body of their poetry, 



1837.] .lEFFREY. 639 

probably, Ccan never be revived; but some sparks of its spirit may 
yet be preserved in a narrower and feebler frame. 

When we look back upon the havoc which two hundred years 
have thus made in the ranks of our immortals — and, above all, 
when we refer their rapid disappearance to the quick succession of 
new competitors, and the accumulation of more good works than 
there is time to peruse — we cannot help being dismayed at the 
prospect which lies before the writers of the present day. There 
never was an age so prolific of popular poetry as that in which 
we now live ; and as wealth, population, and education extend, the 
produce is likely to go on increasing. 

The last ten years have produced, we think, an annual supply 
of about ten thousand lines of good staple poetry — poetry from the 
very first hands that we can boast of — that runs quickly to three 
or four large editions — and is as likely to be permanent as present 
success can make it. Now, if this goes on for a hundred years 
longer, what a task will await the poetical readers of 1919 ! Our 
living poets will then be nearly as old as Pope and Swift are at 
present — but there will stand between them and that generation 
nearly ten times as much fresh and fashionable poetry as is now 
interposed between us and those writers : — and if Scott, and Byron, 
and Campbell, have already cast Pope and Swift a good deal into 
the shade, in what form and dimensions are they themselves likely 
to be presented to the eyes of their great-grandchildren ? 

The thought, we own, is a little appalling; and, we confess, we 
see nothing better to imagine than that they may find a comfort- 
able place in some new collection of specimens — the centenary of 
the pmsent publication. There — if the future editor have any- 
thing^ke the indulgence and veneration for antiquity of his pre- 
decessor — there shall posterity still hang with rapture on the half 
of Campbell — and the fourth part of Byron — and the sixth of 
Scott — and the scattered tithes of Crabbe — and the three per ce^it. 
of Southey — while some good-natured critic shall sit in our mould- 
ering chair, and more than half prefer them to those by whom 
they have been superseded ! 

It is an hyperbole of good nature, however, we fear, to 
ascribe to them even those dimensions at the end of a century. 
After a lapse of two hundred and fifty years, we are afraid to think 
of the space they may have shrunk into. We have no Shakspeare, 
alas! to shed a never-setting light on his contemporaries; and if 
we continue to write and rhyme at the present rate for two hun- 
dred years longer, there must be some new art of short-hand 
reading invented — or all reading must be given up in despair. 



540 JEFFREY. [VICTORIA 



LANDSCAPE BEAUTY AND ITS ASSOCIATED PLEASURES. 

It is easy enough to understand how the sight of a picture or 
statue should affect us nearly in the same way as the sight of the 
original : nor is it much more difficult to conceive^ how the sight 
of a cottage should give us something of the same feeling as the 
sight of a peasant's family; and the aspect of a town raise many 
of the same ideas as the appearance of a multitude of persons. 
We may begin, therefore, with an example a little more compli- 
cated. Take, for instance, the case of a common English landscape 
— green meadows with grazing and ruminating cattle — canals or 
navigable rivers — well fenced, well cultivated fields — neat, clean, 
scattered cottages — humble antique churches, with churchyard 
elms, and crossing hedgerows — all seen under bright skies, and in 
good weather : — There is much beauty, as every one will acknow- 
ledge, in such a scene. But in what does the beauty consist? 
Not certainly in the mere mixture of colors and forms; for colors 
more pleasing, and lines more graceful (according to any theory 
of grace that may be preferred), might be spread upon a board, 
or a painter's pallet, without engaging the eye to a second glance, or 
raising the least emotion in the mind; but in the picture of human 
happiness that is presented to our imaginations and affections — in 
the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, and cheerful and 
peaceful enjoj^ment — and of that secure and successful industry 
that insures its continuance — and of the piety by which it is 
exalted — and of the simplicity by which it is contrasted with the 
guilt and the fever of a city life; in the images of he^illi and 
temperance and plenty which it exhibits to every eye — and in the 
glimpses which it affords to warmer imaginations, of those primi- 
tive or fabulous times, when man was uncorrupted by luxury and 
ambition, and of those humble retreats in which we still delight 
to imagine that love and philosophy may find an unpolluted asy- 
lum. At all events, however, it is human feeling that excites our 
sympathy, and forms the true object of our emotions. It is man, 
and man alone, that we see in the beauties of the earth which he 
inhabits; or,. if a more sensitive and extended sympathy connect 
us with the lower families of animated nature, and make us rejoice 
with the lambs that bleat on the uplands, or the cattle that repose 
in the valley, or even with the living plants that drink the bright 
sun and the balmy air beside them, it is still the idea of enjoy- 
ment — of feelings that animate the existence of sentient beings — 
that calls forth all our emotions, and is the parent of all the 



1837.] • JEFFREY. 641 

beauty with which we proceed to invest the inanimate creation 
around us. 

Instead of this quiet and tame EngJiali landscape, let us now 
take a Welsh or a Highland scene ; and see whether its beauties 
will admit of being explained on the same principle. Here, we 
shall have lofty mountains, and rocky and lonely recesses — tufted 
woods hung over precipices — lakes intersected with castled pro- 
montories — ample solitudes of unploughed and untrodden valleys 
— nameless and gigantic ruins — and mountain echoes repeating 
the scream of the eagle and the roar of the cataract. This, too, 
is beautiful; and, to those who can interpret the language it 
speaks, far more beautiful than the prosperous scene with which 
we have contrasted it. Yet, lonely as it is, it is to the recollection 
of man and the suggestion of human feelings that its beauty also 
is owing. The mere forms and colors that compose its visible 
appearance are no more capable of exciting any emotion in the 
mind than the forms and colors of a Turkey carpet. It is sym- 
pathy with the present or the past, or the imaginary inhahifanfs 
of such a region, that alone gives it either interest or beauty; and 
the delight of those who behold it will always be found to be in 
exact proportion to the force of their imaginations, and the warmth 
of their social affections. The leading impressions, here, are those 
of romantic seclusion, and primeval simplicity; lovers sequestered 
in these blissful solitudes, ''from towns and toils remote,^' and 
rustic poets and philosophers communing with nature, and at a 
distance from the low pursuits and selfish malignity of ordinary 
mortals; then there is the sublime impression of the Mighty 
Powers which piled the massive cliffs upon each other, and rent 
the mountains asunder, and scattered their giant fragments at their 
base; and all the images connected with the monuments of ancient 
magnificence and extinguished hostility — the feuds, and the com- 
bats, and the triumphs of its wild and primitive inhabitants, con- 
trasted with the stillness and desolation of the scenes where they 
lie interred; and the romantic ideas attached to their ancient tra- 
ditions, and the peculiarities of the actual life of their descendants 
— their wild and enthusiastic poetry — their gloomy superstitions — 
their attachment to their chiefs — the dangers, and the hardships 
and enjoyments of their lonely huntings and fishings — their pas- 
toral shielings on the mountains in summer — and the tales and the 
sports that amuse the little groups that are frozen into their vast 
and trackless valleys in the winter. Add to all this, the traces of 
vast and obscure antiquity that are impressed on the language and 
the habits of the people, and on the cliffs, and caves, and gulfy 
torrents of the land; and the solemn and touching reflection, per- 



542 JEFFREY. [VICTORIA 

petually recurring, of the weakness and insignificance of perishable 
man, whose generations thus pass away into oblivion, with all their 
toils and ambition; while nature holds on her unvarying course, 
and pours out her streams, and renews her forests, with undecay- 
ing activity, regardless of the fate of her proud and perishable 
sovereign. 



JAMES WATT. THE STEAM-ENGINE. 

Mr. James Watt, the great improver of the steam-engine, died 
on the 25th of August, 1819, at his seat of Heathfield, near Bir- 
mingham, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. 

This name fortunately needs no commemoration of ours ; for he 
that bore it survived to see it crowned with undisputed and un- 
envied honors; and many generations will probably pass away, 
before it shall have gathered "all its fame." We have said that 
Mr. Watt was the great Improver of the steam-engine; but, in 
truth, as to all that is admirable in its structure, or vast in its 
utility, he should rather be described as its Inventor. It was by 
his inventions that its action was so regulated as to make it ca- 
pable of being applied to the finest and most delicate manufactures, 
and its power so increased as to set weight and solidity at defiance. 
By his admirable contrivance, it has become a thing stupendous 
alike for its force and its flexibility — -for the prodigious power 
which it can exert, and the ease, and precision, and ductility, with 
which that power can be varied, distributed, and applied. The 
trunk of an elephant, that can pick up a pin or rend an oak, is as 
nothing to it. It can engrave a seal, and crush masses of obdurate 
metal before it — draw out, without breaking, a thread as fine as 
gossamer, and lift a ship of war like a bauble in the air. It can 
embroider muslin and forge anchors — cut steel into ribands, and 
impel loaded vessels against the fury of the winds and waves. 

It would be difficult to estimate the value of the benefits which 
these inventions have conferred upon this country. There is no 
branch of industry that has not been indebted to them; and, in 
all the most material, they have not only widened most magnifi- 
cently the field of its exertions, but multiplied a thousandfold the 
amount of its productions. It was our improved steam-engine, in 
short, that fought the battles of Europe, and exalted and sustained, 
through the late tremendous contest, the political greatness of our 
land. It is the same great power which now enables us to pay 
the interest of our debt, and to maintain the arduous struggle in 
which we are still engaged [1819], with the skill and capital of 



1837.] JEFFREY. 543 

countries less oppressed with taxation. But these are poor and 
narrow views of its importance. It has increased indefinitely the 
mass of human comforts and enjoyments; and rendered cheap and 
accessible, all over the world, the materials of wealth and pros- 
perity. It has armed the feeble hand of man, in short, with a 
power to which no limits can be assigned; completed the dominion 
of mind over the most refractory qualities of matter; and laid a 
sure foundation for all those future miracles of mechanic power 
which are to aid and reward the labors of after generations. It 
is to the genius of one man, too, that all this is mainly owing ! 
And certainly no man ever bestowed such a gift on his kind. 
The blessing is not only universal, but unbounded ; and the fabled 
inventors of the plough and the loom, who were deified by the 
erring gratitude of their rude contemporaries, conferred less im- 
portant benefits on mankind than the inventor of our present 
steam-engine. 



SHAKSPEARE.^ 

In many points, Mr, Hazlitt has acquitted himself excellently; 
partly in the development of the principal characters with which 
Shakspeare has peopled the fancies of all English readers — but 
principally, we think, in the delicate sensibility with which he has 
traced, and the natural eloquence with which he has pointed out, 
that fond familiarity with beautiful forms and images — that eternal 
recurrence to what is sweet or majestic in the simple aspects of 
nature — that indestructible love of flowers and odors, and dews 
and clear waters, and soft airs and sounds, and bright skies, and 
woodland solitudes, and moonlight bowers, which are the Material 
elements of Poetry — and that fine sense of their undefinable rela- 
tion to mental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying Soul — 
and which, in the midst of Shakspeare's most busy and atrocious 
scenes, falls like gleams of sunshine on rocks and ruins — contrast- 
ing with all that is rugged and repulsive, and reminding us of the 
existence of purer and brighter elements ! — which he alone has 
poured out from the richness of his own mind, without efi"ort or 
restraint; and contrived to intermingle with the play of all the 
passions, and the vulgar course of this world's afi"airs, without 
deserting for an instant the proper business of the scene, or ap- 
pearing to pause or digress, from the love of ornament or need of 

' From a Review of the " Characters of Shakspeare's Plays, by William 
Hazlitt," in the " Edinburgh Review" of August, 1817. 



544 JEFFREY. [victoria 

repose ! — He alone, who, when the object requires it, is always 
keen and worldly and practical — and who yet, without changing his 
hand, or stopping his course, scatters around him, as he goes, all 
sounds and shapes of sweetness — and conjures up landscapes of 
immortal fragrance and freshness, and peoples them with Spirits 
of glorious aspect and attractive grace — and is a thousand times 
more full of fancy and imagery, and splendor, than those who, in 
pursuit of such enchantments, have shrunk back from the delinea- 
tion of character or passion, and declined the discussion of human 
duties and cares. More full of wisdom and ridicule and sagacity 
than all the moralists and satirists that ever existed — he is more 
wild, airy, and inventive, and more pathetic and fantastic, than 
all the poets of all regions and ages of the world : — and has all 
those elements so happily mixed up in him, and bears his high 
faculties so temperately, that the most severe reader cannot com- 
plain of him for want of strength or of reason — nor the most 
sensitive for defect of ornament or ingenuity. Everything in him 
is in unmeasured abundance and unequalled perfection — but every- 
thing so balanced and kept in subordination, as not to jostle or 
disturb or take the place of another. The most exquisite poetical 
conceptions, images, and descriptions are given with such brevity, 
and introduced with such skill, as merely to adorn, without load- 
ing the sense they accompany. Although his sails are purple and 
perfumed, and his prow of beaten gold, they waft him on his voy- 
age, not less, but more rapidly and directly, than if they had been 
composed of baser materials. All his excellencies, like those of 
Nature herself, are thrown out together; and, instead of interfer- 
ing with, support and recommend each other. His flowers are 
not tied up in garlands, nor his fruits crushed into baskets — but 
spring living from the soil, in all the dew and freshness of youth ; 
while the graceful foliage in which they lurk, and the ample 
branches, the rough and vigorous stem, and the wide-spreading 
roots on which they depend, are present along with them, and 
share, in their places, the equal care of their Creator. 

What other poet has put all the charms of a Moonlight land- 
scape into a single line ? — and that by an image so true to nature, 
and so simple, as to seem obvious to the most common observa- 
tion ? — 

"See how the Moonlight sleeps on yonder bank!" 

Who else has expressed, in three lines, all that is picturesque and 
lovely in a Summer's Dawn? — first setting before our eyes, with 
magical precision, the visible appearances of the infant light, and 
then, by one graceful and glorious image, pouring on our souls all 
the freshnesS; cheerfulness, and sublimity of returning morning? — 



1837.] JEFFREY. 645 



See, love! what envious streaks 



Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East ! 
Night's candles' are burnt out — and jocund Day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain lops!" 

Where shall we find sweet sounds and odors so luxuriously blended 
and illustrated, as in these few words of sweetness and melody, 
where the author says of soft music — 

" it came o'er my ear like the sweet South 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
Stealing and giving odor!" 

This is still finer, we think, than the noble speech on Music in the 
Merchant of Venice, and only to be compared with the enchant- 
ments of Prosperous island; where all the effects of sweet sounds 
are expressed in miraculous numbers, and traced in their opera- 
tion on all the gradations of being, from the delicate Ariel to the 
brutish Caliban, who, savage as he is, is still touched with those 
supernatural harmonies; and thus exhorts his less poetical asso- 
ciates — 

"Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises, 
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not, 
Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments 
Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices. 
That, if I then had waked after a long sleep, 
Would make me sleep again." 

Observe, too, that this and the other poetical speeches of this 
incarnate demon are not mere ornaments of the poet's fancy, but 
explain his character, and describe his situation more briefly and 
effectually than any other words could have done. In this play, 
indeed, and in the Midsummer-Night's Dream, all Eden is un- 
locked before us, and the whole treasury of natural and superna- 
tural beauty poured out profusely, to the delight of all our faculties. 
We dare not trust ourselves with quotations; but we refer to those 
plays generally — to the forest scenes in As You Like It — to the 
rustic parts of the Winter's Tale — several entire scenes in Cym- 

* If the advocates for the grand style object to this expression, we shall not 
stop to defend it : But to us, it seems equally beautiful as it is obvious and 
natural to a person coming out of a lighted chamber into the pale dawn. The 
word candle, we admit, is rather homely in modern language, while lamp is 
sufliciently dignified for poetry. The moon hangs her silver lamp on high in 
every schoolboy's copy of verses ; and she could not be called the candle of 
heaven without manifest absurdity. Such are the caprices of usage. Yet we 
like the passage before us much better as it is than if the candles were changed 
into lamps. If we should read, "The lamps of heaven are quenched," or 
"wax dim," it appears to us that the whole charm of the expression would be 
lost : as our fancies would no longer be recalled to the privacy of that dim- 
lighted chamber which the lovers were so reluctantly leaving. 

47 



546 JEFFREY. [VICTORIA 

beline, and in Romeo and Juliet — and many passages in all the 
other plays — as illustrating this love of nature and natural beauty 
of which we have been speaking — the power it had over the poet, 
and the power it imparted to him. Who else would have thought, 
on the very threshold of treason and midnight murder, of bring- 
ing in so sweet and rural an image as this, at the portal of that 
blood-stained castle of Macbeth ? 

"This guest of summer, 
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve. 
By his lov'd mansionry, that heaven's breath 
Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, buttress, 
Nor coigne of vantage,^ but this bird hath made 
His pendent bed, and procreant cradle." 

Nor is this brought in for the sake of an elaborate contrast between 
the peaceful innocence of this exterior, and the guilt and horrors 
that are to be enacted within. There is no hint of any such sug- 
gestion — but it is set down from the pure love of nature and 
reality — because the kindled mind of the poet brought the whole 
scene before his eyes, and he painted all that he saw in his vision. 
The same taste predominates in that emphatic exhortation to evil, 
where Lady Macbeth says, 

" Look like the innocent flower, 



But be the serpent under it." 
And in that proud boast of the bloody Richard — 

" But I was bo7-?i so high : 
Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top, 
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun!" 

The same splendor of natural imagery, brought simply and di- 
rectly to bear upon stern and repulsive passions, is to be found in 
the cynic rebukes of Apemantus to Timon : — 

" Will these moist trees, 
That have out-liv'd the eagle, page thy heels, 
And skip when thou point'st out? will the cold brook. 
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste 
To cure thine o'er-night's surfeit ?" 

No one but Shakspeare would have thought of putting this 
noble picture into the taunting address of a snappish misanthrope 
— any more than the following into the mouth of a merceneray 
murderer : — 

" Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
And in their summer beauty kissed each other !" 

' Coigne of vantage, convenient corner. 



1837.] JEFFREY. 547 

Or this delicious description of concealed love into that of a re- 
gretful and moralizing parent — 

" But he, his own affection's counsellor, 
Is to himself so secret and so close, 
As is the bud bit with an envious worm 
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, 
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.'' 

And yet all these are so far from being unnatural, that they 
are no sooner put where they are than we feel at once their beauty 
and their effect; and acknowledge our obligations to that exube- 
rant genius which alone could thus throw out graces and attractions 
where there seemed to be neither room nor call for them. In the 
same spirit of prodigality he puts this rapturous and passionate 
exaltation of the beauty of Imogen into the mouth of one who 
is not even a lover — 

— " 'Tis her breathing that 

Perfumes the chamber thus ! The flame o' th' taper 

Bows towards her! and would under-peep her lids, 

To see th' enclosed lights, nov/ canopied 

Under these windows, white and azure, lac'd 

With blue of heaven's own tinct! — on her left breast 

A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 

I' the bottom of a cowslip i" 

But we must break at once away from these manifold enchant- 
ments.^ 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 

Of Swift's personal character, his ingenious biographer has 
given almost as partial a representation as of his political conduct; 
a great part of it indeed has been anticipated, in tracing the prin- 
ciples of that conduct; the same arrogance and disdain of mankind, 
leading to profligate ambition and scurrility in public life, and to 
domineering and selfish habits in private. His character seems 
to have been radically overbearing and tyrannical; for though, 
like other tyrants, he could stoop low enough where his interests 
required it, it was his delight to exact an implicit compliance with 
his humors and fancies, and to impose upon all around him the task 
of observing and accommodating themselves to his habits, without 
the slightest regard to their convenience or comfort. Wherever 
he came, the ordinary forms of society were to give way to his 
pleasure ; and everything, even to the domestic arrangements of a 

* From a Critique on " Hazlitt's Characters of Shakspeare," in the "Edin- 
burgh Review," August, 1817. 



548 JEFFREY. [VICTORIA 

family, to be suspended for his caprice. If he was to be introduced 
to a person of rank, he insisted that the first advances and the first 
visit should be made to him. If he went to see a friend in the 
country, he would order an old tree to be cut down, if it obstructed 
the view from his window — and was never at his ease unless he 
was allowed to give nicknames to the lady of the house, and make 
lampoons upon her acquaintance. On going for the first time into 
any family, he frequently prescribed beforehand the hours for their 
meals, sleep, and exercise : and insisted rigorously upon the literal 
fulfilment of the capitulation. From his intimates he uniformly 
exacted the most implicit submission to all his whims and absurd- 
ities; and carried his prerogative so far that he sometimes used 
to chase the Grattans and other accommodating friends, through 
the apartments of the deanery, and up and down stairs, driving 
them like horses, with a large whip, till he thought he had enough 
of exercise. All his jests have the same character of insolence 
and coarseness. When he first came to his curate's house, he an- 
nounced himself as ^'his master;'^ took possession of the fireside, 
and ordered his wife to take charge of his shirts and stockings. 
When a young clergyman was introduced to him, he ofi"ered him 
the dregs of a bottle of wine, and said he always kept a poor 
parson about him to drink up his dregs. Even in hiring servants, 
he always chose to insult them by inquiring into their qualifica- 
tions for some filthy and degrading office. And though it may be 
true that his after conduct was not exactly of a piece with those 
preliminaries, it is obvious that as no man of proper feelings 
could submit to such impertinence, so no man could have a right 
to indulge in it. Even considered merely as a manner assumed 
to try the character of those with whom he lived, it was a test 
which no one but a tyrant could imagine himself entitled to apply; 
and Swift's practical conclusion from it was just the reverse of 
what might be expected. He attached himself to those only vho 
were mean enough to bear this usage, and broke with all who re- 
sented it. While he had something to gain or to hope from the 
world, he seems to have been occasionally less imperious; but, 
after he retired to Ireland, he gave way without restraint to the 
native arrogance of his character; and, accordingly, confined him- 
self almost entirely to the society of a few easy-tempered persons, 
who had no talents or pretensions to come in competition with his; 
and who, for the honor of his acquaintance, were willing to sub- 
mit to the dominion ho usurped. 



1837.] WORDSWORTH. 649 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770—1850. 

William Wordsworth was born on the 7th of April, 1770, at Cocker- 
mouth, in Cumberland. His parents were of the middle class, and de- 
signed him for the church ; but poetry and new prospects turned him into 
another path. His pursuit through life was poetry, and his profession that 
of stamp-distributor for the government, in the counties of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland. He made liis first appearance as a poet in 1793, by the 
publication of a thin quarto volume, entitled "An Evening Walk; an 
Epistle in Verse, addressed to a Young Lady."' In the same year he 
published "Descriptive Sketches in Verse, taken during a Pedestrian Tour 
among the Alps," of which Coleridge thus writes in his "Biographia 
Literaria:" "During the last of my residence at Cambridge, 1794, I 
became acquainted with Mr. Wordsworth's first publication, entitled 
* Descriptive Sketches ;' and seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an ori- 
ginal poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced." 
Two years after, the two poets, then personally unknown to each other, 
were brought together, at Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire. Coleridge 
was then in his twenty-fourth, and Wordsworth in his twenty-sixth year. 
A congeniality of pursuit soon ripened into intimacy, and, in September, 
1798, accompanied by Miss Wordsworth, they made a tour in Germany. 

Wordsworth's next publication was the first volume of his " Lyrical 
Ballads," published just after he left for the Continent, by Joseph Cottle, of 
Bristol, who purchased the copyright for thirty guineas.* But it proved a 
great failure, and Cottle was a loser by the bargain. The critics were 
very severe upon it. Jeffrey in the "Edinburgh,"^ Byron in his "Eng- 

' It was published by Johnson, in St. Paul's Church Yard, from whose shop, 
but seven years before, had appeared the " Task" of Cowper. 

2 Mr. Cottle deserves to be held forever in the most grateful remembrance 
for the constant, unwearied kindness and liberality he showed to Wordsworth 
and Coleridge. 

3 '< All the world laughs at Elegiac Stanzas to a Sucking Pig — A Hymn on 
Washing-day — Sonnets to one's Grandmother — or Pindarics on Gooseberry- 
pie ; and yet we are afraid it will not be quite easy to convince Mr. Wordsworth 
that the same ridicule must infallibly attach to most of the pathetic pieces in 
these volumes." 

Edinburgh Review, vol. xi. p. 218. 

" We come next to a long story of a ' Blind Highland Boy,' who lived near 
an arm ot the sea, and had taken a most unnatural desire to venture on that 
perilous element. His mother did all siie could to prevent him ; but one morn- 
ing, when the good woman was out of the way, he got into a vessel of his 
own, and pushed out from the shore — 

< In such a vessel ne'er before 
Did human creature leave the shore.' 

And then we are told that if the sea should get rough, ' a beehive would be ship 
as safe,' ' But say what was it?' a poetical interlocutor is made to exclaim 

47* 



550 WORDSWORTH. [VICTORIA 

lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers," and James Smith in his "Rejected 
Addresses,"' and others of legs note in the literary world, all fired their 
shafts of reason and ridicule at him. Many years, therefore, elapsed before 
Mr. Wordsworth appeared again as a poet. But he was not idle, for the 
same year that witnessed the failure of his " Lyrical Ballads," he wrote 
his " Peter Bell," though he kept it by him many years before he pub- 
lished it. 

Wordsworth married, in the year 1803, Miss Mary Hutchinson, of Pen- 
rith, and settled among his beloved Lakes — first at Grasmere, and afier- 
wards at Rydal Mount. Southey's subsequent retirement to the same 
beautiful country, and Coleridge's visits to his brother poets, originated 
the name of the " Lake School of Poetry," by which the opponents of 
their principles and the critics of the " Edinburgh Review" distinguished 
the three poets, whose names are so intimately connected. In 1807, he 
put forth two volumes of his poems, and in the autumn of 1814 appeared, 
in quarto form, the celebrated " Excursion." It consists of sketches of 
life and manners among the mountains, intermingled with moral and devo- 
tional reflections. It is merely a part of a larger poem, which was to be 
entitled " The Recluse," and to be prefaced by a minor one delineating the 
growth of the author's mind, published since his death under the name of 
" The Prelude." " The Recluse" was to be divided into three parts — the 
" Excursion" forms the second of these ; the first book of the first part is 
extant in manuscript, but the rest of the work was never completed. 

No sooner did " The Excursion" appear than the critics were down 
upon it with a vengeance. " This will never do," was the memorable 
opening of the article in the " Edinburgh. "^ A few thought it " would 
do," and praised it ; but while it was still dividing the critics, " Peter 
Bell" appeared, to throw amongst them yet greater differences of opinion. 
The deriders of the poet laughed still louder than before, while his admir- 
ers believed, or affected to believe, that it added to the author's fame. 
Another publication the next year — " The White Doe of Rylstone" — was 
even more severely handled by one party, while, with " the school," it 
found still greater favor than anything that he had before written.^ In 

most naturally ; and here followeth the answer, upon which all the pathos and 
interest of the story depend — 

' A HOUSEHOLD TUB, like one of those 
Which W'omen use to wash their clothes' ! I 

This, it will be admitted, is carrying the matter as far as it will well go ; nor 
is there anything — down to the wiping of shoes, or the evisceration of chickens 
— which may not be introduced in poetry, if this is tolerated." 

Edinhttrgh Kevie^v, vol. xi. p. 225. 

" See page 510. 

^ <• This will never do! * * It is longer, weaker, and tamer than any 
of Mr. Wordsworth's other productions ; with less boldness of originality, and 
less even of that extreme simplicity and lowliness of tone which wavered so 
prettily, in the 'Lyrical Ballads,' between silliness and palhus." 

Ibid. A^ol. xxiv. p, 1. 

^ " This, we think, has the merit of being the very worst poem we ever saw 
imprinted in a quarto volume, and though it was scarcely to be expected, we 



1837.] WORDSWORTH. 551 

1820, he published his noble series of " Sonnets to the River Duddon," 
which contains some of his very finest poetry. Two years after appeared 
his "Ecclesiastical Sonnets," which were composed at the same time that 
Southey was writing his " History of the Church." 

In 1831, he visited Scotland, and, on his way to the Lakes, had an 
affecting interview — the last he ever had — with Sir Walter, who "was 
rapidly failing, and was about to set off for an Italian clime. The evening 
of the 22d September was a very sad one in his antique library. Lockhart 
was there, and Allen, the historical painter. Wordsworth was also feeble 
in health, and sat with a green shade over his eyes, and bent shoulders, 
between his daughter and Sir Walter. The conversation was melancholy, 
and Sir Walter remarked that Smollett and Fielding had both been driven 
abroad by declining health, and had never returned. Next morning he 
left Abbotsford, and his guests retired with sorrowful hearts. Words- 
worth has preserved a memento of his own feelings in a beautiful sonnet. 
In 1833, he visited Staffa and lona. The year 1834 was a sort of era in his 
life by the publication of his complete works in four volumes. His friends, 
however, now began to fall around him. That year poor Coleridge bade 
adieu to his weary life. This must have touched many a chord of asso- 
ciation in Wordsworth's heart. In 1836, his sister and constant friend 
and companion, died, and blow followed blow in fatal succession." 

As if to console him for the loss of so many that were dear to his heart, 
worldly honors began to be heaped upon him. In 1835, "Blackwood's 
Magazine" came out strongly in his defence. In 1839, amid the acclama- 
tions of the students, he received the degree of Doctor of Civil Law from 
Oxford University. In 1842, he received a pension of X300 ayear, with 
permission to resign his office of stamp- distributor in favor of his son. 
Next year he was appointed to the laureateship, left vacant by the melan- 
choly death of Southey. After this he lived a quiet and dignified life at 
Rydal, evincing little apparent sympathy with the arduous duties and 
activities of the every-day world — a world which he left, calmly and 
peacefully, at a good old age, on the 23d of April, 1850. 

No author in English literature has so divided the critics as William 
Wordsworth. While his most ardent admirers place him in the very first 
class of our poets, the large majority of the literary world, I think I may say, 
see nothing in his poetry that will justify such high praise. Gladly would 
I join the school of his admirers, if I honestly could ; but in a work of my 
own I must, whether right or wrong, express my own opinions. While, 
therefore, I freely accord to his poetry smooth and easy versification, great 
power of minute and faithful description, and sentiments of the purest 
morality, such as must and will exert a happy moral influence wherever 
and by whomsoever read, I cannot give him rank among our best poets. 
To compare him with Milton, as some have done, is simply absurd. In 

confess that Mr. Wordsworth, with all his ambition, should so soon have at- 
tained to that distinction, the w^onder may, perhaps, be diminished when we 
state that it seems to us to consist of a happy union of all the faults, without 
any of the beauties, which belong to his school of poetry. 

Edinburgh Review, vol. xxv. p. 35.5. 



552 WORDSWORTH. [VICTORIA 

my estimation, he by no means equals either Gray or Collins, for what has 
he written equal to the " Bard" of the one, or the " Ode to Evening" of 
the other ? The truth is, he never moves me ; I have tried hard to be an 
admirer of his poetry, but in vain. Indeed I had rather be the author of the 
little, comparatively, Henry Kirke White was enabled to give the world 
before his untimely death, than all the volumes that Wordsworth published 
from youth to age. But not to obtrude my own views any further in a mat- 
ter where so great a difference of opinion exists, I will here transcribe what 
appears to me a sufficiently favorable estimate of his character, from a well- 
written notice of him recently published in the fifth volume of " Chambers' 
Papers for the People :" — * 

" His devotion to external nature had the power and pervasiveness of a 
passion; his perception of its most minute beauties was exquisitely fine ; 
and his portraitures, both of landscapes and figures, were so distinctly out- 
lined as to impress them on the mind almost as vividly and deeply as the 
sight of them could have done. Yet his pictures, so to speak, are inodor- 
ous, and there is a certain want of richness, which may arise from his 
deficiency in the sense of smell. He was defective in the stronger passions, 
and hence, in spite of the minuteness of his portraitures of character, he 
failed to produce real human beings capable of stirring the blood ; and 
what was even more serious, he himself was incapacitated from feeling a 
genial and warm sympathy in the struggles of modern man, on whom he 
rather looked as from a distant height with the commiseration of some 
loftier nature. From the characteristics enumerated arose the great faults 
of his works. His landscape paintings are often much too minute. He 
dwells too tediously on every small object and detail, and from his over- 
intense appreciation of them, which magnifies their importance, rejects all 
extrinsic ornaments, and occasionally, though exceptionally, adopts a style 
bare and meagre, and even phrases tainted with mean associations. Hence 
all his personages — being without reality — fail to attract, and even his 
strong domestic affections, and his love for everything pure and simple, do 
not give a sufficient human interest to his poems. His prolixity and tedi- 
ousness are aggravated by a want of artistic skill in construction ; and it is 
owing to this that he is most perfect in the sonnet, which renders the develop- 
ment of these faults an impossibility, while it gives free play to his naturaily 
pure, tasteful, and lofty diction. His imagination was majestic ; his fancy 
lively and sparkling; and he had a refined and Attic humor, which, how- 
ever, he seldom called into exercise. "^ 

* I have asked, from time to time, a number of literary friends whose taste 
and attainments are unquestioned, their opinion of Wordsworth, and their 
answers have been something like this — " I have tried to like him, but can- 
not." Now, is it not 'p^ima fade evidence that any poetry has not the 
highest claims to merit when men of taste and reading have to "try" to like 
it? Who ever dreamed of " tr^ang" to like Milton, or Shakspeare, or Gray, 
or Goldsmith, or Cowper, or Campbell, or Henry Kirke White ? 

2 Lord Jeffrey, in republishing a portion of his " Contributions to the Edin- 
burgh Review," thus writes, in a note to the article on Wordsworth's " Ex- 
cursion," thirty years after the article first appeared : — 

" I have spoken in many places rather too bitterly and confidently of the 



1837.] WORDSWORTH. 553 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 



I saw an aged Beggar in my walk ; 
And he was seated, by the highway side, 
On a low structure of rude masonry 
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 



faults of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry, and forgetting that, even on my own view 
of them, they were but faults of taste, or venial self-partiality, have sometimes 
visited them, I fear, with an asperity which should be reserved for objects of 
moral reprobation. If I were now to deal with the whole question of his 
poetical merits, though my judgment might not be substantially difierent, I 
hope I should repress the greater part of these vivacites of expression; and, 
indeed, so strong has been my feeling in this way, that, considering how much 
I have always loved many of the attributes of his genius, and how entirely 1 
respect his character, it did at first occur to me whether it was quite fitting- 
that, in my old age and his, I should include in this publication any of 
those critiques which may have formerly given pain or offence to him or his 
admirers. But, when I reflected that the mischief, if there really ever was 
any, was long ago done, and that I still retain, in substance, the opinions which 
I should now like to have seen more gently expressed, I felt that to omit all 
notice of them on the present occasion might be held to import a retractation 
which I am as far as possible from intending, or even be represented as a 
very shabby way of backing out of sentiments which should either be man- 
fully persisted in, or openly renounced and abandoned as untenable. 

" I finally resolved, therefore, to reprint my review of ' The Excursion,' 
which contains a pretty full viewof my griefs and charges against Mr. Words- 
worth, set forth, too, I believe, in a more temperate strain than most of my 
other inculpations — and of w^iich I think I may now venture to say farther 
that, if the faults are unsparingly noted, the beauties are not penuriously or 
grudgingly allowed, but comifiended to the admiration of the reader with at 
least as much heartiness and good-will. 

" But I have also reprinted a short paper on the same author's 'White Doe 
of Rylstone,' in which there certainly is no praise, or notice of beauties, to 
set against the very unqualified censures of which it is wholly made up. I 
have done this, however, not merely because 1 adhere to these censures, but 
chiefly because it seemed necessary to bring me fairly to issue with those 
who may not concur in them. I can easily understand that many whose ad- 
miration of the ' Excursion,' or the 'Lyrical Ballads,' rests substantially on 
the passages which I too should join in admiring, may view with greater in- 
dulgence than I can do the tedious and flat passages with which they are 
interspersed, and may consequently think my censure of these works a great 
deal too harsh and uncharitable. Between such persons and me, therefore, 
there may be no radical difference of opinion, or contrariety as to principles 
of judgment. But if there be any who actually admire this ' White Doe of 
Kylstone,' or ' Peter Bell, the Wagoner,' or the ' Lamentations ofMarthaKae,' 
or the ' Sonnets on the Punishment of Death,' there can be no such ambiguity 
or means of reconcilement. Now I have been assured not only that there are 
such persons, but that almost all those who seek to exalt Mr. Wordsworth as 
the founder of a new school of poetry, consider these as by far his best and 
most characteristic productions, and would at once reject from their commu- 
nion anyone who did not acknowledge in them the traces of a high inspira- 
tion. Now I wish it to be understood that, when I speak with general intole- 
rance or impatience of the school of Mr. Wordsworth, it is to the school holding 
these tenets, and applying these tests, that I refer ; and I really do not see how 
I could better explain the grounds of my dissent from their doctrines than by 
republishing my remarks on this ' White Doe.' " 



554 WORDSWORTH. [^VICTORIA 

Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 
JNIay thence remount at ease. The aged man 
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
He drew his scraps and fragments one by one ; 
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
Of idle computation. In the sun, 
Upon the second step of that small pile, 
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
He sat, and ate his food in solitude ! 
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand. 
That, still attempting to prevent the waste. 
Was bafBed still, the crumbs, in little showers, 
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain-birds, 
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
Approached within the length of half his staff. 

Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
He was so old, ha seems not older now ; 
He travels on, a solitary man. 
So helpless in appearance, that for him 
The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw 
With careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
But stops — that he may safely lodge the coin 
Within the old man's hat ; nor quits him so, 
But still, when he has given his horse the rein. 
Watches the aged beggar with a look 
Sidelong — and half reverted. She who tends 
The tollgate, when in summer at her door 
She turns her wheel, if on the road iHie sees 
The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
The postboy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
The aged beggar in the woody lane. 
Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned, 
The old man does not change his course, the boy 
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, 
And passes gently by — without a curse 
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
He travels on, a solitary man ; 
His age has no companion. On the ground 
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
They move along the ground; and, evermore, 
Instead of common and habitual sight 
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground, 
He plies his weary journey; seeing still, 
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 
The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left 



1837.] WORDSWORTH. 655 

Impressed on the vvbite road — in the same line, 
At distance still the same. Poor traveller ! 
His staff trails with him j scarcely do his feet 
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 
In look and motion, that the cottage curs, 
Ere he have passed the door, will turn away, 
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls. 
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
And urchins newly breeched — all pass him by ■ 
Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves behind. 

But deem not this man useless. Statesmen ! ye 
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not 
A burden of the earth ! 'Tis nature's law 
That none, the meanest of created things. 
Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
Divorced from good — a spirit amd pulse of good, 
A life and soul, to every mode of being 
Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps 
From door to door, the villagers in him 
Behold a record which together binds 
Past deeds and offices of charity. 
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
And that half wisdom half experience gives, 
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
To selfishness, and cold obUvious cares. 
Among the farms and solitary huts, 
Hamlets and thinly scattered villages. 
Where'er the aged beggar takes his rounds, 
ThQ mild necessity of use compels 
To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
Of reason ; yet prepares that after-joy 
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued. 
Doth find itself insensibly disposed 
To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, 
By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
And meditative, authors of delight 
And happiness, which to the end of time 
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds 
In childhood, from this solitary being. 
Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
(A thing more precious far than all that books 
Or the solicitudes of love can do !) 
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 
In which they found their kindred with a world 
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 



556 WORDSWORTH. [VICTORIA 

Who sits at his own door — and like the pear 
That overhangs his head from the green wall, 
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, 
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
Of their own kindred — all behold in him 
A silent monitor, which on their minds 
Must needs impress a transitory thought 
Of self congratulation to the heart 
Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
His charters and exemptions ; and, perchance, 
Though he to no one give the fortitude 
And circumspection needful to preserve 
His present blessings, and to husband up 
The respite of the season, he, at least, 
And "tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. 
Yet further — many, I believe, there are 
Who live a life of virtuous decency — 
Men who can hear the decalogue and feel 

No self reproach; who of the moral law 

Established in the land where they abide 

Are strict observers ; and not negligent 

In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, 

Their kindred and the children of their blood. 

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! — 

But of the poor man ask the abject poor; 

Go and demand of him if there be here, 

In this cold abstinence from evil deeds. 

And these inevitable charities, 

Wherewith to satisfy the human soul 1 

No. Man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 

Long for some moments in a weary life 

When they can know and feel that they have been 

Themselves the fathers and the dealers out 

Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such 

As needed kindness, for this single cause, 

That we have all of us one human heart. 

Such pleasure is to one kind being known, 

My neighbor, when with punctual care each week, 

Duly as Friday comes, though prest herself 

By her own wants, she from her store of meal 

Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 

Of this old mendicant, and from her door 

Returning with exhilarated heart. 

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
And while in that vast solitude to which 
The tide of things has borne him, he appears 
To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
Unblanied, uninjured, let him bear about 
The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
Has hung around him; and while life is his. 



1837.] WORDSWORTH. 557 

Still let him prompt the uulettered villagers 
To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe 
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood 
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 
And let the cli^rtered wind that sweeps the heath 
Beat his gray locks against his withered face. 
Reverence the hope whose vhal anxiousness 
Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
Make him a captive ! for that pent-up din. 
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, , 
Be his the natural silence of old age! 
Let him be free of mountain solitudes; 
And have around him, whether heard or not, 
The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
Few are his pleasures; if his eyes have now 
Been doomed so long to settle on th§ earth 
That not without some effort they be1»oId >^ 

The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
R^sil^g" or setting, let the light at least 
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
And let him, where and when he will, sit down ] --^ 
Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank 
■ ^. Of highway side, and with the little birds 

Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally. 
As in the eye of Natu^ he has lived, v 
So in the eye of Nature let him die! 

.iV... LUCY. 



V ■•...•.. ♦. 



Three years she grew in sun. and shower, 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 
»^n earth -v^as never sown ; "■■■ '^•^ .. •. 

^^ "'•^Bis'li^ild^Irt-a myself wiU take; 'V '"N 

"X She shall oS^kJfeg, and I will make \ 

A lady of my own. "•"^.h'*' 

"Myself will to my darling be '"**'' .*>^ »^ .. . < 

Both law and impulse; and with me, ^ "^ ■ ^ 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm. 
And hers the silence and the calm. 

Of mute insensate things. 

48 



558 WORDSWORTH. [VICTORIA 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her, for her the willow bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see, 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place, 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 

"And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — the work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



A PEASANT YOUTH. 

The mountain ^sh 
No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head, 
Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine 
Spring's richest blossoms : and ye may have marketl 
By a brook side or solitary tarn, y 

How she her station doth adorn. Thej»ool ' * ,•- 
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
Are brightened rovtnd her. In his native vale, 
Sucb and so glorious did this youth appear; 
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow. 
By all the graces with which Nature's hand 
Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards 
Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 
Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form ; 
Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade, 
Discovered in their own despite to sense 
Of mortals (if such fables without blame 
May find chance mention on this sacred ground), 
So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 



WORDSWORTH. 



559 



And through the impediment of rural cares, 

In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ; 

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight. 

In him the spirit of a hero walked 

Our unpretending valley. How the quoit 

Whizzed from the stripUng's arm ! If touched by him, 

The inglorious football mounted to the pitch 

Of the lark's flight, or shaped a rainbow curve 

Aloft in prospect of the shouting field ! 

The indefatigable fox had learned 

To dread his perseverance in the chase. 

With admiration would he lift his eyes 

To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 

Was loath to assault the majesty he loved, 

Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 

To guard the royal brood. The sailing glede. 

The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 

The sporting sea-gull dancing with the waves, 

And cautious waterfowl from distant climes, 

Fixed at their seat, the centre of the mere, 

Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 

Excursion, book vii. 



A PORTRAIT. 

She was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 
A dancing shape, an image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 



And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller betwixt life and death; 



560 WORDSWORTH. [VICTORIA 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, 
A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

Sweet Highland girl ! a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And those gray rocks; that household lawn 

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; 

This fall of water, that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake; 

This little bay, a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy abode — 

In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream ; 

Such forms as from their covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 

Yet, dream or vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart : 

God shield thee to thy latest years! 

I neither know thee nor thy peers ; 

And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 
For never saw I mien or face 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed, 
Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress 
And maidenly shamefacedness : 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a mountaineer : 
A face with gladness overspread : 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 
With no restraint but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech : 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 



WORDSWORTH. ^^1 

So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful 1 
O happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
Adopt your homely ways, and dress 
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality: 
Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea : and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though but of common neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see! 
Thy elder brother I would be— 
Thy father— anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had ; and, going hence, 
I bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize 
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: 
Then, why should I be loath to stir 1 
I feel this place was made for her ; 
To give new pleasure like the past, 
Continued long as life shall last. 
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, 

Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part ; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old. 

As fair before me shall behold, 

As I do now, the cabin small. 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
And thee, the spirit of them all ! 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 
Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon. 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have fflimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 

48* 



562 WORDSWORTH. [VICTORIA 

Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



LONDON.^ 

Earth has not anything to show more fair; 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare. 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 

Open unto the fields and to the sky. 
All bright and glittering in tlie smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep, 

In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still! 



MILTON.^ 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; 

England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 

Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea 
Pure as the naked heavens — majestic, free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself didst lay. 



WE ARE SEVEN. 

A simple child, dear brother Jim, 

That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death ? 

» Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1803. 
' Composed in London in 1802. 



WORDSWORTH. 

I met a little cottage girl ; 

She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 

That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair — 

Her beauty made me glad, 

«' Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be V 
<' How many 1 Seven in all," she said, 

And wondering looked at me. 

« And where are they 1 I pray you tell." 
She answered, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the churchyard-cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

"You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell. 
Sweet maid, how this may be V 

Then did the little maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 

Two of us in the churchyard lie 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

« You run about, ray little maid. 

Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid. 

Then ye are only five." 
"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little maid replied, 
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 

And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem, 
And there upon the ground I sit — 
I sit and sing to them. 

" And often after sunset, sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was little Jane ; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain, 
And tlien she went away. 



563 



664 BAILLIE. [VICTORIA 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
And all the summer dry, 
Together round her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow, 
And I could run and slide, 
My brother John was forced to go. 
And he Hes by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
" If they two are in heaven "?" 
The little maiden did reply, 
" O master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven !" 
'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will. 

And said, " Nay, we are seven !" 



JOANNA BAILLIE, 1762—1851. 

This distinguished female poet, whose literary life stretches back into 
the last century, and whose early recollectiona were of the days of Burke, 
Johnson, Goldsmith, and Reynolds, was the daughter of a Scottish clergy- 
man, and was. born at Bothwell, on the banks of the Clyde, in the year 
1762. She always lived in retirement, and latterly in strict seclusion, in 
her retreat at Hampstead. The literary fame which she had acquired by 
her own works, aided in no small degree by the long and loudly expressed 
admiration of Sir Walter Scott, ^ who always visited her when in London, 
never succeeded in drawing her into general society. 

During the greater part of her life, she lived with a maiden sister, 
Agnes — also a poetess — to whom she addressed her beautiful " Birthday" 
poem. She early removed with her sister to London, where their brother, 
the late Sir Matthew Baillie, was settled as a physician, and there her 



The wild harp silent hung 



By silver Avon's holy shore, 
Till twice a hundred years roU'd o'er, 
When SHE, the bold enchantress, came 
With fearless hand and heart on flame — 
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure. 
And swept it with a kindred measure, 
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
With "Montfort's" hate and "Basil's" love, 
Awakening at the inspiring strain 
Deem'd their own Shakspeare liv'd again." 



1837.] BAILLIE. 565 

earliest poetical works appeared anonymously. Her first dramatic efforts 
were published in 1798, under the title of "A Series of Plays: in which 
it is attempted to Delineate the Stronger Passions of the Mind, each Pas- 
sion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy." To the volume was 
prefixed a long and interesting " Introductory Discourse," in which the 
authoress discusses the subject of the drama in all its bearings, and asserts 
the supremacy of simple nature over all decoration and refinement. " Let 
one simple trait of the human heart," says she, " one expression of passion, 
genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in 
the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away 
upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." This theory 
the accomplished dramatist illustrated in her plays, the merits of which 
were so quickly recognized that a second edition was called for in a few 
months. Miss Baillie was then in her thirty-fourth year. A second 
volume was published in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, 
she gave the world a volume of miscellaneous dramas, in 1804, and the 
" Family Legend" in 1810, a tragedy founded on Highland tradition, and 
which, principally through the efforts of Sir Walter Scott, was brought out 
at the Edinburgh Theatre. The only " Play of the Passions" ever repre- 
sented on the stage was " De Montfort," which was brought out by the cele- 
brated actor John Kemble, and played for eleven nights. In fact, like all 
the dramatic efforts of our authoress, it was a poem — a poem full of genius 
and the true spirit of poetry — but not a play. Though the best of her dra- 
matic productions, it is deficient in those lifelike, stirring scenes, and in 
that variety and fulness of passion, the "form and pressure" of everyday 
life, which are so essential to success on the stage. 

In 1823, our authoress published a long-promised collection of "Poetic 
Miscellanies," and in 1836 three more volumes of plays. Besides these 
poetic productions, she is the author of "A View of the General Tenor of 
the New Testament regarding the Nature and Dignity of Jesus Christ." 
She also published "Metrical Legends of Eminent Characters," "Fugi- 
tive Verses," and some less important publications. She died on the 23d 
of February, 1851. ^ 

* The following is a portion of the account, in " Chambers' Journal," of her 
interview with Lord Jefirey, of the "Edinburgh Review." " It was in the 
autumn of 1820 that Miss Baillie paid her last visit to Scotland, and passed 
those delightful days with Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford, the second of which 
is so pleasantly given in Mr. Lockhart's life of the bard. Her friends again 
perceived a change in her manners. They had become blander and much 
more cordial. She had probably been now too long admired and reverently 
looked up to, not to understand her own position, and the encouragement 
which, essentially unassuming as she was, would be necessary from her to 
reassure the timid and satisfy the proud. She had magnanimously forgiven 
and lived down the unjust severity of her Edinburgh critic, and now no longer 
refused to be made personally known to him. He was presented to her by 
their mutual friend, the amiable Dr. Moorehead. They had much earnest and 
interesting talk together, and from that hour to the end of their lives enter- 
tained for each other a mutual and cordial esteem. After this, Jeffrey seldom 
visited London without indulging himself in a friendly pilgrimage to the shrine 
of the secluded poetess ; and it is pleasing to find him writing of her in the 



566 BAILLIE. [VICTORIA 

Though Miss Baillie laid out her chief strength upon her dramas, her 
lyric and miscellaneous poetry takes a very high rank among similar pro- 
duclions of the present century. To great simplicity and womanly tender- 
ness of feeling, she unites at times a conciseness and vigor of expression 
which are not often surpassed, A good idea of her various styles may be 
gathered from the following pieces : — 



TO A CHILD. 

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, 

And curly pate, and merry eye, 
And arm and shoulder round and sleek, 

And soft and fair 1 — thou urchin sly ! 

What boots it who with sweet caresses 

First called thee his — or squire or hind 1 
Since thou in every wight that passes 

Dost now a friendly playmate find. 

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, 

As fringed eyelids rise and fall; 
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running. 

Is infantine coquetry all. 

But far afield thou hast not flown ; 

With mocks, and threats, half-lisp'd, half-spoken, 
I feel thee pulling at my gown, 

Of right good will thy simple token. 

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 

A mimic warfare with me waging; 
To make, as wily lovers do, 

Thy after kindness more engaging. 

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, 

And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure: 
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf 

To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 

But yet, for all thy merry look. 

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming 
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, 

The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. 

following cordial way in later years : ^Lo7idon, April 28, 1840. — I forgot to 
tell you that we have been twice out to Hampstead, to hunt out Joanna Baillie, 
and found her the other day as fresh, natural, and amiable as ever — and as 
little like a Tragic Muse. Since old Mrs. Brougham's death, I do not know 
so nice an old woman.' And again, in January 7, 1842 : ♦ We went to Hamp- 
stead, and paid a very pleasant visit to Joanna Baillie, who is marvellous in 
health and spirits, and youthful freshness and simplicity of feeling, and not a 
bit deaf, blind, or torpid.' " 



BAILLIE. 567 



Well ; let it be ! — through weal and woe, 
Thou know'st not now thy future range; 

Life is a motley, shifting show. 

And thou a thing of hope and change. 



A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT. 

Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye. 
Thy curled nose and lip awry, 
Uphoisted arms and noddling head, 
And little chin with crystal spread, 
Poor helpless thing! what do I see 
That I should sing of thee? 

From thy poor tongue no accents come, 
Which can but rub thy toothless gum : 
Small understanding boasts thy face; 
Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace : 
A few short words thy feats may tell; 
And yet I love thee well. 

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek. 
And redder swells thy little check ; 
When rattled keys thy woes beguile, 
And through thy eyelids gleams the smile: 
Still for thy weakly self is spent 
Thy little silly plaint. 

But when thy friends are in distress, 
Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'ertheless; 
Nor with kind sympathy be smitten. 
Though all are sad but thee and kitten ; 
Yet, puny varlet that thou art, 
Thou twitchest at the heart. 

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm ; 
Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm ; 
Thy silken locks that scantly peep. 
With gold-tipp'd ends, where circles deep 
Around thy neck in harmless grace 
So soft and sleekly hold their place, 
Might harder hearts with kindness fill, 
And gain our right good will. 

Each passing clown bestows his blessing, 
Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kissing : 
E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye 
Of surly sense when thou art by; 
And yet, I think, whoe'er they be, 
They love thee not like me. 

Perhaps when time shall add a few 
Short months to thee, thou'lt love me too: 



568 BAILLIE. [VICTORIA 

And after that, through life's long way, 
Become my sure and cheering stay; 
Wilt care for me and be my hold, 
When I am weak and old. 



THE KITTEN. 

Wanton droll, whose harmless play 

Beguiles the rustic's closing day, 

When drawn the evening fire about, 

Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout, 

And child upon his three-foot stool, 

Waiting till his supper cool ; 

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, 

As bright the blazing fagot glows. 

Who, bending to the friendly light, 

Plies her task with busy sleight; 

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, 

Thus circled round with merry faces. 

Backward coiled, and crouching low. 
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 
The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring 
Upon the futile, faithless thing. 
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill. 
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 
As oft beyond thy curving side 
Its jetty tip is seen to glide; 
Till, from thy centre starting fair, 
Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in air. 
Erected stiff, and gait awry. 
Like madam in her tantrums high: 
Though ne'er a madam of them all, 
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall. 
More varied trick and whim displays, 
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. 

* * * 

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight. 
To thee is but a clumsy wight, 
Who every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains; 
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Requites him oft with plaudits loud. 
But, stopped the while thy wanton play. 
Applauses, too, tht/ feats repay: 
For then beneath some urchins hand. 
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, 



1837.] ^ BAILLIE. 669 

While many a stroke of fondness glides 

Along thy back and tabby sides. 

Dilated swells thy glossy fur, 

And loudly sings thy busy pur, 

As, timing well the equal sound, 

Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, 

And all their harmless claws disclose, 

Like prickles of an early rose; 

While softly from thy whiskered cheek 

Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 

But not alone by cottage fire 
Do rustics rude thy feats admire; 
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
The widest range of human lore, 
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly 
Through airy heights of poesy. 
Pausing, smiles with altered air 
To see thee climb his elbow-chair, 
Or, struggling on the mat below, 
Hold warfare with his slippered toe. 
The widowed dame, or lonely maid, 
Who in the still, but cheerless shade 
Of home imsocial, spends her age. 
And rarely turns a lettered page; 
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
The rounded cork, or paper-ball, 
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
The ends of ravelled skein to catch, 
But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perplexing oft her sober skill. 
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, 
In lonely tower or prison pent, 
Reviews the coil of former days. 
And loathes the world and all its ways : 
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
Doth rouse him from his moody dream. 
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat. 
His heart with pride less fiercely beat, 
And smiles, a link in thee to find 
That joins him still to living kind. 

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless Puss, 
The magic power to charm us thus? 
Is it that, in thy glariijg eye, 
And rapid movements, we descry. 
While we at ease, secure from ill. 
The chimney-corner snugly fill, 
A lion, darting on the prey, 
A tiger, at his ruthless play? 
Or is it that in thee we trace. 
With all thy varied wanton grace, 
An emblem viewed with kindred eye. 
Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 

49 



570 BAILLIE. [VICTORIA 

Ah! many a lightly sportive child, 
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, 
To dull and sober manhood grown. 
With strange recoil our hearts disown. 
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure, 
When thou becomest a cat demure ; 
Full many a cuff and angry word, 
Chid roughly from the tempting board ; 
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween. 
So oft our favored playmate been, 
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, 
When time hath spoiled thee of our love ; 
Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, 
A comely, careful, mousing cat, 
Whose dish is, for the public good, 
Eeplenished oft with savory food. 

Nor, when thy span of life is past, 
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast; 
But gently borne on good man's spade, 
Beneath the decent sod be laid, 
And children show, with glistening eyes. 
The place where poor old Pussy lies. 



BIRTHDAY LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE. 

Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with tears, 
O'er us have glided almost sixty years 
Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen 
By those whose eyes long closed in death have been — 
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather 
The slender harebell on the purple heather ; 
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem, 
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem. 
Then every butterfly that crossed our view 
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew ; 
And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright, 
In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight. 
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side, 
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,i 
Minnows or spotted parr witj> twinkling fin, 
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within, 
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent, 
Seen in the power of early wonderment. 
* » * * 

'Twas thou who woo"dst me first to look 
Upon the page of printed book, 

1 The Manse of Bothwell was at some considerable distance from the Clyde, 
but the two little girls were sometimes sent there in summer to bathe and wade 
about. 



BAILLIE. ^"^1 

That thing by me abhorred, and with address 
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness, 
When all too old become with bootless haste 
In fitful sports the precious time to waste. 
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke 
At which my dormant fancy first awoke, 
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain 
Arose in sombre show a motley train. 
This new-found path attempting, proud was I 
Lurking approval on thy face to spy, 
Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, 
" What! is this story all thiae own invention?" 
Then, as advancing through this mortal span, 
Our intercourse with the mixed world began, 
Thy ftiirer face and sprightlier courtesy 
(A truth that from my youthful vanity 
Lay not concealed) did for the sisters twain, 
Where'er we went, the greater favor gain; 
While, but for thee, vexed with its tossing tide, 
I from the busy world had shrunk aside. 
And now, in later years, with better grace, 
Thou heli)'st me still to hold a welcome place 
With those whom nearer neighborhood have made 
The friendly cheerers of our evening shade. 
By daily use and circumstance endeared, 
Things are of value now that once appeared 
Of no account, and without notice passed. 
Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast; 
To hear thy morning steps the stair descending. 
Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending; 
After each stated nightly absence, met 
To see thee by the morning tables set. 
Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream 
Which sends from saucered cup its fragrant steam: 
To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand, 
On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand 
For -arden-work prepared; in winter's gloom 
From thy cold noonday walk to see thee come. 
In furry garment lapt, with spattered feet. 
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat; 
Ay, even o'er things like these sooth'd age has thrown 
A sober charm they did not always own- 
As winter hoarfrost makes minutest spray 
Of bush or hedgeweed sparkle to the day 
In magnitude and beauty, which, bereav d 
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceiv d. 

The change of good and evil to abide, 
As partners linked, long have we, side by side, 
Our earthly journey held; and who can say 
How near the end of our united way 1 
By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft 
Will she remain— the lonely pilgrim left. 



572 ROGERS. [VICTORIA 

If thou art taken first, who can to me 

Like sister, friend, and home-companion be? 

Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn, 

Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn? 

And if I should be fated first to leave 

This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve, 

And he above them all, so truly proved 

A friend and brother, long and justly loved, 

There is no living wight, of woman born. 

Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn. 

Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling 
The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing 
With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing 
The unhoarded mite, nor for tomorrow caring — 
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day, 
An unadorned, but not a careless lay. 
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid 
From tardy love proceeds, though long delay'd. 
Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed, 
The latest spoken still are deemed the best: 
Few are the measured rhymes I now may write; 
These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite. 



SAMUEL ROGERS, 1762 

"And thou, melodious Rogers, rise at last, 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
Arise ; let blest remembrance still inspire, 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre ! 
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne. 
Assert thy country's honor and thine own." — Byron. 

Samuel Rogeks, one of the most elegant poets of the present century, 
was the son of an eminent banker in London, and was born in that city 
about the year 1762. He presents a rare instance of great wealth allied 
to great talents, untiring industry in literary pursuits, and pure morals. 
No expense, of course, was spared in his education, and after leaving the 
university, he travelled through most of the countries of Europe. On his 
return he published, in 17S6, an " Ode to Superstition, with other Poems," 
which was well received. About six years after, when he had attained his 
thirtieth year, appeared " The Pleasures of Memory," which was received 
by the public with universal applause, and at once established his fame as 
among the best of our modern poets. The subject was most happily 
chosen, for it came home " to the business and bosoms" of all, and it was 
executed with exceedingly great care. It has been said that no poem 
of equal size ever cost its author so many hours to produce. Not satisfied 



1837.] ROGERS. 573 

with correcting. and re- correcting il again and again himself, he read it to 
various friends for the benefit of their criticism ; and the result is that it is 
perfectly finished throughout, each part harmonizing with the other, and 
every line carefully and tastefully elaborated, " It acquired," says a 
writer in the " Edinburgh Review," "a popularity originally very great, 
and which has not only continued amidst extraordinary fluctuation of gene- 
ral taste, but increased amidst a succession of formidable competitors. 
No production so popular was probably so little censured by criticism. It 
was approved by the critics as much as read and applauded, and thus 
seemed to combine the applause of contemporaries with the suffrages of 
the representatives of posterity." 

In 1798, Rogers pubhshed his "Epistle to a Friend, with other Poems," 
but did not come forward again as a poet till 1812, when he added to a 
collected edition of his works his somewhat irregular poem of " The 
Vision of Columbus." Two years after, in company with Lord Byron's 
"Lara," appeared his tale of " Jacqueline," which, though well received, 
contributed but little to his reputation ; and, in 1819, he published his 
" Human Life," which, next to his " Pleasures of Memory," is our author's 
most finished production.' The subject was a good one, for it was drawn 
from universal nature, and connected with all those rich associations which 
increase in attraction as we journey onward in the path of life. It is an 
epitome of man from the cradle to the grave, and is executed throughout 
with the poet's wontec^care. 

In 1822 was published his first part of "Italy," which was soon after 
completed, and has since been published in the most splendid style, illus- 
trated by numerous engravings. This is his last and longest, but not his 
best performance, though there are certainly many beautifully descriptive 
passages in it — delightful glimpses of Italian life and scenery, and old 
traditions ; for the poet was an accomplished traveller, a lover of the fair 
and good, and a worshipper of the classic glories of the past. But it is 
chiefly as the author of the " Pleasures of Memory" that he will be known 
to posterity, though, at the same time, some of his minor poems are among 
the most pure and exquisite fragments of verse which the poets of this age 
have produced. In all his works, however, there is everywhere seen " a 
classic and graceful beauty; no slovenly or obscure lines; fine cabinet 
pictures of soft and mellow lustre ; and occasionally trains of thought and 
association that awaken or recall tender and heroic feelings. His diction 
is clear and polished— finished with great care and scrupulous nicety ; but 
it must be admitted that he has no forcible or original invention, no deep 

» " The poet looks on man, and teaches us to look on him not merely with 
love, but with reverence ; and, mingling a sort of considerate pity for the 
shortness of his busy, little career, and for the disappointments and weaknesses 
with which it is beset, with a genuine admiration of the great capacities he 
unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a 
very beautiful and engaging picture, both of the affections by which life is 
endeared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the puj-e and peaceful enjoy- 
ments with which it may often be filled." 

Edinburgh Review, vol, xxxi. p. 325. 

49>H 



574 ROGERS. [victoria 

pathos that thrills the soul, and no kindling energy that fires the imagina- 
tion." 

In society, few men are said to be more agreeable in manners and con- 
versation than the venerable subject of this memoir. ' ' He has been enabled 
to cuhivate his favorite tastes, to enrich his house in St. James' Park vi'ith 
some of the finest and rarest pictures, busts, books, and gems, and to 
entertain his friends with a generous and unostentatious hospitality. His 
conversation is rich and various, abounding in wit, eloquence, shrewd ob- 
servation, and interesting personal anecdote. He has been familiar with 
almost every distinguished author, orator, and artist for the last fifty years. 
His benevolence is equal to his taste ; his bounty soothed and relieved the 
death-bed of Sheridan, and is now exerted to a large extent, annually, in 
behalf of suffering or unfriended talent."' 



EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 

Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green, 
With magic tints to harmonize the scene; 
Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, 
When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, 
And games and carols closed the busy da^. 
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 
With treasured tales and legendary lore. 
All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! 
What secret charms this silent spot endear ! 

Mark yon old mansion, frowning through the trees, 
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, 
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport. 
When nature pleased, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promised what the fancy drew, 
* * * * 

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, 
The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green! 
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live ! 
Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. 
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; 
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm. 
When nature fades and life forgets to charm; 
Thee would the Muse invoke! — to thee belong 
The sage's precept and the poet's song. 

* "Chambers' Cyclopaedia." 



1837.] ROGERS. 575 

What soften'd views thy magic glass reveals, 

When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 

Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 

Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd 

Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray. 

Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 

Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn. 

Quickening my truant feet across the lawn ; 

Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, 

When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear. 

Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here, 

And not the lightest leaf but trembling teems 

With golden visions and romantic dreams ! 

Pleasures of Memory. 



HISTORIC ASSOCIATIONS. 

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, 
As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. 
And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, 
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. 
Hence homefelt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh ; 
This makes him wish to live and dare to die. 
For this young Foscari/ whose hapless fate 
Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate, 
When exile wore his blooming years away, 
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey, 
V When reason, justice vainly urged his cause. 
For this he roused her sanguinary laws : 
Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more, 
And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore. 

And hence the charms historic scenes impart ;2 
Hence Tiber awes and Avon rnelts the heart. 

'■ He was suspected of murder, and, at Venice, suspicion is good evidence. 
Neither the interest of the Doge, his father, nor the intrepidity of conscious 
innocence, which he exhibited in the dungeon and on the rack, could procure 
his acquittal. He was banished to the Island of Candiafor life. But here his 
resolution failed him. At such a distance from home he could not live ; and, 
as it was a criminal offence to solicit the intercession of a foreign prince, 
in a fit of despair he addressed a letter to the Duke of Milan, and intrusted 
it to a wretch whose perfidy, he knew, would occasion his being remanded a 
prisoner to Venice. 

2 '< Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses ; whatever makes 
the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the present, advances us 
in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and far from my friends be 
such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any 
ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man 
is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plains 



576 ROGERS. [VICTORIA 

Aerial forms in Tempe's classic vale 

Glance through the gloom and whisper in the gale ; 

In wild Vauch^se with love and Laura dwell, 

And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. 

'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb 

We bless the shade and bid the verdure bloom : 

So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of Time,^ 

On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime ; 

When at his feet, in honor'd dust disclosed, 

The immortal Sage of Syracuse reposed. 

And as he long in sweet delusion bung, 

Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung, 

Who now but meets him musing when he roves 

His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves'? 

In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll 

His moral thunders o'er the subject soul ? 

And hence that calm delight the«poitrait gives: 
We gaze on every feature till it lives! 
Still the fond lover sees the absent maid; 
And the lost friend still lingers in his shade! 
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep. 
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep : 
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace 
The father's features in his infant face. 
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away. 
Won by the raptures of a game at play; 
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy. 
Forgets his age. and acts again the boy. 

Vv^hat though the iron school of War erase 
Each milder virtue and each softer grace ; 
What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest 
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast; 
Still shall this active principle preside. 
And wake the tear to Pity's self denied. 

The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, 
Condemn'd to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, 
If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild 
Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, 
Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise. 
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. 

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm : 
Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ? 
"Why great Navarre,^ when France and freedom bled, 
Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed? 

of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of 
lona." Johnson. 

• " When Cicero was quaestor in Sicily, he discovered the tomb of Archi- 
medes by its mathematical inscription." Tusc. Quast. v. 3. 

^ " That amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry the Fourth of France, 
made an excursion from his camp, during the long siege of Laon, to dine at a 



1837.] ROGERS. 577 

When Diocletian's self-corrected mind^ 

The imperial fasces of a world resigu'd, 

Say why we trace the labors of his spade, 

In calm Salona's philosophic shade ? 

Say, when contentions Charles renounced a throne,^ 

To muse with monks unlettered and unknown, 

What from his soul the parting tribute drew? 

What claim'd the sorrows of a last adieu? 

The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast 

Ere grandeur dazzled and its cares oppress'd. 

The same . 



PLEASURES OP MEMORY. 

Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, 
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, 
To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, 
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. 

Ages and climes remote to thee impart 
What charms in Genius and refines in Art ; 
Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, 
The pensive portress of her holy cell ; 
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp 
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp. 

The friends of Reason and the guides of Youth, 
Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth ; 
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught 
The great in conduct and the pure in thought ; 
These still exist^ by thee to Fame consign'd, 
Still speak and act, the models of mankind. 

house in the forest of Folambray, where he had often been regaled, when a 
boy, with fruit, milk, and new cheese, and in revisiting which he promised 
himself great pleasure." 

Mem. de Sully. 

* << Diocletian retired into his native province, and there amused himself 
with building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is deserv- 
edly celebrated. He was solicited by that restless old man to reassume the 
reins of government and the imperial purple. He rejected the temptation 
with a smile of pity, calmly observing, ' That if he could show Maximian the 
cabbages which he had planted with his own hands at Salona, he should no 
longer be urged to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for the pursuit of 
power.' " 

Gibbon. 

° " When the Emperor Charles V. had executed his memorable resolution, 
and had set out for the monastery of St. Justus, he stopped a few days at 
Ghent," says his historian, " to indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy 
which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visiting the 
place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and objects familiar to him in his 
early youth." 

Robertson. 

» There is a future existence even in this world, an existence in the hearts 



578 ROGERS. [VICTORIA 

From thee sweet Hope her airy coloring draws; 
And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. 
From thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, 
Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. 

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, 
And Hope's delusive. meteors cease to play; 
When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close. 
Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows; 
Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night 
With the mild magic of reflected light. 

The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, 
Oft of that world will snatch a fond review ; 
Oft at the shrine neglect her beads to trace 
Some social scene, some dear familiar face; 
And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell 
Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent-cell, 
Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive. 
To love and joy still tremblingly alive; 
The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong. 
Weave the light dance and swell the choral song; 
With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, 
And, as it melts along the moonlight glade, 
To each soft note return as soft a sigh, 
And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. 

But not till Time has calm'd the ruffled breast 
Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. 
Not till the rushing winds forget to rave 
Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. 

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail. 
And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. 
Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; "i 
Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, > 
The racks of thought, and freezings of despair ! ) 
But pause not then — beyond the western wave, 
Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave! 
Crush'd till his high heroic spirit bleeds. 
And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. 

Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resign'd, 
Lo ! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. 
Her dear delusions .soothe his sinking soul 
When the rude scourge assumes its base control; 

and minds of those who shall live after us. It is in reserve for every man, 
however obscure ; and his portion, if he be diligent, must be equal to his de- 
sires. For in whose remembrance can we wish to hold a place but such as 
know and are known by us ? These are within the sphere of our influence, 
and among these and their descendants we may live evermore. 

It is a state of rewards and puniishments ; and, like that revealed to us in 
the Gospel, has the happiest intluence on our lives. The latter excites us to 
gain the favor of God, the former to gain the love and esteem of wise and 
good men, and both lead to the same end ; for, in framing our conceptions of 
the Deity, we only ascribe to Him exalted degrees of wisdom and goodness. 



1837.] ROGERS. ^ 579 

And o;er Futurity's blank page diffuse 
Tlie full reflection of her vivid hues. 
'Tis but to die, and then to weep no more, 
Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore j 
Beneath his plantain's ancient shade, renew 
The simple transports that with freedom flew; 
Catch the cool breeze that musky evening blows, 
And quaff" the palm's rich nectar as it glows ; 
The oral tale of elder time rehearse, 
And chant the rude traditionary verse 
With those, the loved companions of his youth, 
When life was luxury and friendship truth. 
***** 
Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine 
From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine! 
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway ! 
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone j 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air Hope's summer-visions die, 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; 
If but a beam of sober Reason play, 
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away ! 
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 
Snatch the rich relics of a well spent hour ? 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 
Pour round her path a stream of living light; 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
Where Virtue triumphs and her sons are blest ! 

The. same. 



HUMAN LIFE. 

The lark has sung his carol in the sky, 
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby; 
Still in the vale the village bells ring round, 
Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound ; 
For now the caudle-cup is circling there. 
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, 
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 
A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail 
The day again, and gladness fill the vale; 
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; 
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine ; 
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days. 
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, 
" 'Twas on her knees he sat so oft and smiled." 



580 ROGERS. [VICTORI- 

And soon again shall music swell die breeze; 
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees 
Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung, 
And violets scattered round ; and old and young, 
In every cottage-porch, with garlands green, 
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene, 
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, 
Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride. 

And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour. 
Another voice shall come from yonder tower; 
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, 
And weeping heard where only joy has been ; 
When, by his children borne, and from his door, 
Slowly departing to return no more. 
He rests in holy earth with them that went before. 

And such is human life ; so gliding on, 
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! 
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, 
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, 
As any that the wandering tribes require. 
Stretched in the desert round their evening fire ; 
As any sung of old, in hall or bower, 
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour! 

***** 

The day arrives, the moment wished and feared; 
The child is born, by many a pang endeared, 
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry ; 
Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye ! 
He comes — she clasps him. To her bosom press'd, 
He drinks the balm of life and drops to rest. 

Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows ! 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy. 
What answering looks of sympathy and joy! 
• He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 

His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies. 
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung 
(That name most dear forever on his tongue). 
As with soft accents round her neck he clings, 
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings. 
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart. 
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, 
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 

But soon a nobler task demands her care. ^ 
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, > 
Telling of Him who sees in secret there : ) 
And now the volume on her knee has caught 
His wandering eye — now many a written thought 



ROGERS. 



581 



Never to die, with many a lisping sweet, 

His moving, murmuring lips endeavor to repeat. 



P^^STUM. 

Tliey stand between the mountains and the sea j' 
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not. 
Tlie seaman passing, gazes from the deck ; 
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak. 
Points to the work of magic and moves on. 
Time was they stood along the crowded street, 
Temples of gods, and on their ample steps 
What various habits, various tongues beset 
The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice ! 
Time was, perhaps, the third was sought for justice ; 
And here the accuser stood, and there the accused. 
And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged. 
All silent now, as in the ages past, 
Trodden under foot and mingled dust with dust. 

How many centuries did the sun go round 
From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, 
While, by some spell rendered invisible. 
Or, if approached, approached by him alone 
Who saw as though he saw not, they remained 
As in the darkness of a sepulchre. 
Waiting the appointed time ! All, all within 
Proclaims that nature had resumed her right, 
And taken to herself what man renounced; 
No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus. 
But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern. 
Their iron-brown o erspread with brightest verdure! 

From my youth upward have I longed to tread 
This classic ground; and am I here at last? 
Wandering at will through the long porticos. 
And catching, as through some majestic grove, 
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, 
Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, halfway up, 
Towns like the living rock from which they grew ? 
A cloudy region, black and desolate, 
Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. 

The air is sweet with violets, running wild 
'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals ; 
Sweet as when TuUy, writing down his thoughts. 
Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost. 



» The temples of Ptestum are three in number, and have survived, nearly 
nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concern- 
ing them ; but they must have existed now between two and three thousand 
years. 

50 



582 ROGERS. [VICTORIA 

(Turning to tbee, divine philosophy, 
Ever at hand to cahn his troubled soul,) 
Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago, 
For Athens ; when a ship, if north-east winds 
Blew from the Psestan gardens, slacked her course. 

On as he moved along the level shore, 
These temples, in their splendor eminent 
.. 'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers, 
Reflecting back the radiance of the west. 
Well might he dream of glory ! Now, coiled up, 
The serpent sleeps within them ; the she-wolf 
Suckles her young ; and as alone I stand 
In this, the nobler pile, the elements 
Of earth and air its only floor and covering, 
How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirs 
Save the shrill-voic'd cicala flitting round 
On the rough pediment to sit and sing ; 
Or the green lizard rustling through the grass, 
And up the fluted shaft with short, quick spring. 
To vanish in the chinks that time has made. 

In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 
Seen at his setting, and a flood of light 
Fining the courts of these old sanctuaries 
(Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, 
Athwart the innumerable columns flung). 
In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 
Led by the mighty genius of the place. ^ 

Walls of gome capital city first appeared. 
Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn ; 
And what within them? What but in the midst 
These three in more than their original grandeur, 
And, round about, no stone upon another? 
As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear. 

And, turning, left them to the elements. 

Italy. 



COLUMBUS — LAND DISCOVERED. 

Twice in the zenith blazed the orb of light ; 
No shade, all sun, insufferably bright ! 
Then the long line found rest — in coral groves 
Silent and dark, where the sea-lion roves: — 
And all on deck, kindling to life again. 
Sent forth their anxious spirits o'er the main. 

" Oh whence, as wafted from Elysium, whence 
These perfumes, strangers to the raptured sense ? 

' They are said to have been disjcovered by accident about the middle of 
the last century. 



1837.] ROGERS. 683 

These boughs of gold, and fruits of heavenly hue, 
Tinging with vermeil light the billows blue? 
And (thrice, thrice blessed is the eye that s])ied, 
The hand that snatch'd it sparkling in the tide) 
Whose cunning carved this vegetable bowl,' 
Symbol of social rites and intercourse of soul?" 
Such to their grateful ear the gush of springs, 
Who course the ostrich as away she wings ; 
Sons of the desert! who delight to dwell 
'Mid kneeling camels round the sacred well ; 
Who, ere the terrors of his pomp be past. 
Fall to the demon in the redd'ning blast.^ 

The sails were furl'd ; with many a melting close, 
Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose. 
Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day 
When setting suns o'er summer seas display 
A path of glory opening in the west 
To golden climes and islands of the blest; 
And human voices, on the silent air. 
Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there! 

Chosen of men ! 'twas thine, at noon of night, 
First from the prow to hail the glimmering light; 
(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray 
Enters the soul and makes the darkness day !) 
" Pedro ! Rodrigo ! there methought it shone! 
There — in the west ! and now, alas, 'tis gone ! — 
'Twas all a dream ! we gaze and gaze in vain ! 
But mark, and speak not, there it comes again ! 
It moves ! — what form unseen, what being there 
With torchlike lustre fires the murky air? 
His instincts, passions, say how like our own ! 
Oh ! when will day reveal a world unknown ?" 



A WISH. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook that turns a inill. 

With many a fall, shall linger near. 

The swallow oft beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 

And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ! 

* Ex ligno lucido confectum, et arte mira laboratum. P. Martyr, Dec. i. 5. 
2 The Simoom. 



584 MONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees, 

Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY, 1771 

James Montgomery, the author of the "Wanderer of Switzerland,"' 
" The West Indies," and other poems, was the son of a Moravian min- 
ister, and was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, Scotland, on the fourth of Novem- 
ber, 1771. When he was six years old, his parents went as missionaries 
to the West Indies, pla&ing him before they went at a Moravian seminary 
at Fulneck, in Yorkshire. Here, among this people, remarkable for their 
ardor in religion, he received his education, and made commendable 
proficiency in the Greek, Latin, German, and French languages, and in 
his English studies. He early evinced a taste for poetry, but his poetic 
wares did i;pt meet with very ready sale in the market, and, in 1792, he 
established'himself in Sheffield as an assistant in a newspaper office — the 
" Sheffield Register." Two years after, the publisher, Mr. Gales, being 
obliged to fly from England to avoid a prosecution, our author undertook 
the editorship and publication of the paper. He soon got himself into 
trouble, being prosecuted for printing a ballad, written by a clergyman of 
Belfast, in commemoration of the destruction of the Bastile, which was, 
in that period of great political agitation, interpreted into a seditious libel. 
He was convicted, and sentenced to a fine of twenty pounds, and three 
months imprisonment in York Castle. 

On returning to his editorial duties, he abstained, as much as possible, 
from politics, but in January, 1795, he was tried for a second imputed poli- 
tical oflence — a paragraph in his paper which reflected on the conduct of 
a magistrate in quelling a riot at Sheffield. He was again convicted, and 
sentenced to six months' imprisonment, to pay a fine of thirty pounds, and 
to give security to keep the peace for two years. " All the persons," says 
the amiable poet, writing in 1840, " who were actively concerned in 
the prosecutions against me in 1794 and 1795, are dead, and, without ex- 
ception, they died in peace with me. I believe I am quite correct in 
saying, that from each of them distinctly, in the sequel, I received tokens 
of good will, and, from several of them, substantial proofs of kindness. I 
mention not this as a plea in extenuation of oflTences for which I bore the 
penalty of the law ; I rest my justification, in these cases, now on the same 
grounds, and no other, on which I rested my justification then. I mention 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. 585 

the circumstance to the honor of the deceased, and as an evidence that, 
amidst all the violence of that distracted time, a better spirit was not 
extinct, but finally prevailed, and, by its healing influence, did indeed com- 
fort those who had been conscientious sufferers." 

In the spring of 1797, he printed his " Prison Amusements," the pro- 
duction of his pen during his recent confinement. In 1805, he published 
" The Ocean," and the next year " The Wanderer of Switzerland, and 
other Poems," which, in spite of a very ill-natured criticism in the " Edin- 
burgh Review,"^ soon rose into popularity, and completely established the 
reputation of the author as a poet. His next work was the " West Indies," 
which appeared in 1809, written in honor of the abolition of the African 
slave trade by the British legislature in 1807. In vigor and freedom of 
description, and in fine pathetic painting, this poem is much superior to 
anything in his first volume. In 1812, appeared " The World before the 
Flood," a poem in the English heroic couplet, and extending to ten short 
cantos, of which a writer in the "Monthly Magazine" justly remarked 
that "no man of taste or feeling can possibly read it without wishing to 
make others participate in the pleasure he has derived from it." He next 
published (1817), " Thoughts on Wheels," directed against lotteries ; and 
" The Climbing Boy's Soliloquies," to enlist the sympathies of the public 
in favor of the chimney-sweeps. In 1819, appeared "Greenland," con- 
taining a sketch of the ancient Moravian church and its missions in Green- 
land, The only other long poem of Mr. Montgomery is "The Pelican 
Island,'' describing the haunts of the pelican in the small islands on the 
coast of New Holland.^ Besides these, he has written a number of sacred 
lyrics, which rank among the very best in the language. 

In 1825, Mr. Montgomery retired from the editorship of the Sheffield 
newspaper, which post he had filled for more than thirty years. On this 
occasion, his friends and neighbors invited him to a public entertainment. 
" There the happy and grateful poet ' ran through the story of his life even 
from his boyish days,' when he came amongst them friendless and a 

• This same " Edinburgh Review," twenty-eight years afterwards, altered 
its tone completely — thus: "Gradually with every successive production, 
the excrescences of our author's early style have been pruned away. Earnest- 
ness has succeeded to aflectation ; a manly simplicity of thought and reserve 
of expression, to the flowery exuberance and strained conceits of youth; 
overcharged and almost whining pathos has softened into a more chastened, 
natural, and unobtrusive tenderness; and a spirit of religion, profound and 
awe-inspiring, yet withal cheerful and consolatory, forming a part of the 
man himself, pervades and informs all his works, till the poet, who seemed at 
one time too likely to prolong the absurdities of the ' Delia Crusca School,' 
has taken his place, not unworthily, among the classics of the nation." (Edin. 
Rev. Ixi. 473.) In the sixth volume of the "London Quarterly" is a very 
severe notice of the early criticism of the "Edinburgh" — critic censuring 
critic. 

* " This poem abounds in minute and delicate description of natural phe- 
nomena—has great felicity of diction and expression — and, altogether, pos- 
sesses more of the power and fertility of the master than any other of the 
author's works." 

Chambers'' Cyc, 

50* 



586 MONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

stranger, from his retirement at Fulneck among the Moravian brethren, 
by whom he was educated in all but knowledge of the world. He spoke 
with pardonable pride of the success which had crowned his labors as an 
author. ' Not, indeed,' he said, ' with fame and fortune, as these were 
lavished on my greater contemporaries, in comparison with whose magni- 
ficent possessions on the British Parnassus my small plot of ground is no 
more than Naboth's vineyard to Ahab's kingdom ; but it is my own ; it is 
no copyhold ; I borrowed it, I leased it from none. Every foot of it I en- 
closed from the common myself; and I can say that not an inch which I 
had once gained have I ever lost. * * I wrote neither to suit the man- 
ners, the taste, nor the temper of the age ; but I appealed to universal prin- 
ciples, to unperishable affections, to primary elements of our common 
nature, found wherever man is found in civilized society, wherever his 
mind has been raised above barbarian ignorance, or his passions purified 
from brutal selfishness." 

In 1630 and 1831, our author was selected to deliver a course of lectures, 
at the Royal Institution, on Poetry and General Literature. This he pre- 
pared for the press, and it appeared in 1833 ; and a more interesting and 
instructive work on general literature, in the same compass, cannot, I 
think, be found. "A collected edition of his works, with autobiogra- 
phical and illustrative matter, was issued in 1841, in four volumes. A tone 
of generous and enlightened morality pervades all the writings of this 
poet. He was the enemy of the slave trade, and of every form of oppres- 
sion, and the warm friend of every scheme of philanthropy and improve- 
ment. The pious and devotional feelings displayed in his early effusions 
have grown with his growth, and form the staple of his poetry. In descrip- 
tion, however, he is not less happy ; and in his ' Greenland' and ' Pelican 
Island' there are passages of great beauty, evincing a refined taste and 
judgment in the selection of his materials. His late works have more vigor 
and variety than those by which he first became distinguished. Indeed, 
his fame was long confined to what is termed the religious world, till he 
showed, by his cultivation of different styles of poetry, that his depth and 
sincerity of feeling, the simplicity of his taste, and the picturesque beauty 
of his language, were not restricted to purely spiritual themes. His smaller 
poems enjoy a popularity almost equal to those of Moore, which, though 
differing widely in subject, they resemble in their musical flow, and their 
compendious happy expression and imagery."' 



THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME. 

There is a land, of every land the pride, 
Beloved by heaven, o'er all the world beside ; 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder moons emparadise the night; 

* Chambers' Cyclopaedia. 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. 587 

A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: 
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair. 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
In every clime the magnet of his soul. 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; 
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, 
The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest: 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride. 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend; 
Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life; 
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 
Around her knees domestic duties meet. 
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
" Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?" 
Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; 
O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
That land tht countrt, and that spot tht home! 

The West Indies. 



HOME DEAR TO THE AFRICAN. 

Man, through all ages of revolving time, 

Unchanging man, in every varying clime. 

Deems his own land of every land the pride, 

Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 

His HOME the spot of earth supremely blest, 

A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 

And is the Negro outlawed from his birth? 

Is he alone a stranger on the earth ? 

Is there no shed whose peeping roof appears 

So lovely, that it fills his eyes with tears? 

No land, whose name, in exile heard, will dart 

Ice through his veins, and lightning through his heart? 

Ah ! yes; beneath the beams of brighter skies, 

His home amidst his father's country lies ; 

There, with the partner of his soul, he shares 

Love-mingled pleasures, love-divided cares; 

There, as with nature's warmest, filial fire. 

He soothes his blind, and feeds his helpless sire; 

His children, sporting round his hut, behold 

How tliey shall cherish him when he is old. 

Thus lived the Negro in his native land. 

Till Christian cruisers anchored on his strand : 



688 MONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

— 'Twas night; his babes around hinti lay at rest, 
Their mother slumber'd on their father's breast; 
A yell of murder rang around their bed ; 
They woke; their cottage blazed; the victims fled; 
Forth sprang the ambush'd ruffians on their prey, 
They caught, they bound, they drove them far away; 
The white man bought them at the mart of blood; 
In pestilential barks they crossed the flood; 
Then were the wretched ones asunder torn. 
To distant isles, to separate bondage borne, 
Denied, though sought with tears, the sad relief 
That misery loves — the fellowship of grief. 



The West Indies. 



NIGHT. 

Night is the time for rest ; 

How sweet, when labors close. 
To gather round an aching breast 

The curtain of repose, 
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head 
Upon our own delightful bed ! 

Night is the time for dreams; 

The gay romance of life. 
When truth that is and truth that seems, 

Blend in fantastic strife ; 
Ah! visions less beguiling far 
Than waking dreams by daylight are ! 

Night is the time for toil ;' 

To plough the classic field. 
Intent to find the buried spoil 

Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
Till all is ours that sages taught, 
That poets sang or heroes wrought. 

Night is the time to weep ; 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of memory, where sleep 

The joys of other years; 
Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
But perished young, like things on earth ! 

Night is the time to watch ; 

On ocean's dark expanse 
To hail the Pleiades, or catch 

The full moon's earliest glance. 



• Without any wish to make pedantic objections, we may be allowed to re- 
mark that this stanza is inconsistent with natural truth and a just economy of 
life. Day is the time for toil — night is more proper for repose, and, if spent 
in mental labor, in addition to other duties pursued during the day, must re- 
dound to the injury of health. 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. " 589 

That brings unto the homesick mind 
All we have loved and left behind. 

Night is the time for care; 

Brooding on hours misspent, 
To see the spectre of despair 

Come to our lonely tent; 
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, 
Startled by Csesar's stalwart ghost. 

Night is the time to muse ; 

Then from the eye the soul 
Takes flight, and with expanding views 

Beyond the starry pole. 
Descries, athwart the abyss of night. 
The dawn of uncreated light. 

Night is the time to pray; 

Our Saviour oft withdrew 
To desert mountains far away ; 

So will his followers do; 
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
And hold communion there with God. 

Night is the time for death; 

When all around is peace, 
Calmly to yield the weary breath. 

From sin and suffering cease: 
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
To parting friends — such death be mine ! 



THE GRAVE. 

There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found, 
They softly lie and sweetly sleep 

Low in the ground. 

The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
No more disturbs their deep repose 
Than summer evening's latest sigh, 

That shuts the rose. 

I long to lay this painful head 
And aching heart beneath the soil, 
To slumber in that dreamless bed 

From all my toil. 

For misery stole me at my birth, 
And cast me helpless on the wild : 
I perish ; 0, my mother earth ! 

Take home thy child ! 



590 MONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

On thy dear lap these limbs, reclined, 
Shall gently moulder into thee ; 
Nor leave one wretched trace behind 
Resembling me. 

Hark ! a strange sound affrights mine ear ; 
My pulse, my brain runs wild — I rave : 
Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear 1 
" I am the Grave ! 

The Grave, that never spake before, 
Hath found at length a tongue to chide : 

listen ! I will speak no more : 

Be silent, pride ! 

Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn, 
The victim of consuming care? 
Is thy distracted conscience torn 

By fell despair ? 

Do foul misdeeds of former times 
Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? 
And ghosts of un forgiven crimes 

Murder thy rest ? 

Lashed by the furies of the mind, 
From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee ? 
Ah ! think not, hope not, fool ! to find 
A friend in me. 

By all the terrors of the tomb. 
Beyond the power of tongue to tell! 
By the dread secrets of my womb ! 

By death and hell! 

1 charge thee live! repent and pray; 
In dust thine infamy deplore ; 
There yet is mercy ; go thy way, 

And sin no more. 

Art thou a mourner ? Hast thou known 
The joy of innocent delights ? 
Endearing days forever flown. 

And tranquil nights ? 

O live! and deeply cherish still 
The sweet remembrance of the past: 
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will 
For peace at last. 

Art thou a wanderer? Hast thou seen 
O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? 
A shipwrecked sufferer, hast thou been 
Misfortune's mark? 

Though long of winds and waves the sport. 
Condemned in wretchedness to roam, 
Live ! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, 
A quiet home. 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. 591 

To friendship didst thou trust thy famel 
And was thy friend a deadly foe, 
Who stole into thy breast, to aim 
A surer blow ? 

Live ! and repine not o'er his loss, 
A loss unworthy to be told: 
Tliou hast mistaken sordid dross 

For friendship's gold. 

Go, seek that treasure, seldom found, 
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, 
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 
With heavenly balm. 

Did woman's charms thy youth beguile. 
And did the fair one faithless prove? 
Hath she betrayed thee with her smile, 
And sold thy love 1 

Live! 'twas a false, bewildering fire: 
Too often love's insidious dart 
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, 
But kills the heart. 

Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear, 
To gaze on listening beauty's eye ! 
To ask — and pause in hope and fear 
Till she reply! 

A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 
A brighter maiden faithful prove ; 
Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
In woman's love. 

Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, 
Confess thy folly — kiss the rod, 
And in thy chastening sorrows see 

The hand of God. 

A bruised reed he will not break; 
Afflictions all his children feel ; 
He wounds them for his mercy's sake ; 
He wounds to heal ! 

Humbled beneath his mighty hand, 
Prostrate his Providence adore : 
'Tis done ! — Arise ! He bids thee stand. 
To fall no more. 

Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! 
To realms of everlasting light. 
Through time's dark wilderness of years. 
Pursue t% flight. 

There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found; 
And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
Low in the ground, 



592 MONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

The soul, of origin divine, 
God's glorious image, freed from clay, 
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, 
A star of day ! 

The sun is but a spark of fire, 
A transient meteor in the sky ; 
The soul, immortal as its sire. 

Shall never die." 



THE FIELD IS THE WORLD. 

Sow in the morn thy seed. 
At eve hold not thine hand; 

To doubt and fear give thou no heed, 
Broad-cast it o'er the laud. 

Beside all w^aters sow ; 

The highway furrows stock; 
Drop it where thorns and thistles grow; 

Scatter it on the rock. 

The good, the fruitful ground, 
Expect not here nor there ; 

0"er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found; 
Go forth, then, everywhere. 

Thou know'st not which may thrive, 

The late or early sown ; 
Grace keeps the precious germs alive. 

When and wherever strown. 

And duly shall appear. 

In verdure, beauty, strength, 

The tender blade, the stalk, the ear, 
And the full corn at length. 

Thou canst not toil in vain : 
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry. 

Shall foster and mature the grain, 
For garners in the sky. 

Thence, when the glorious end, 

The day of God is come. 
The angel-reapers shall descend, 

And heaven cry — '' Harvest home." 



# 
THE COMMON LOT. 

Once, in the flight of ages past, 

There lived a man : and who was he? 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. 

Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth, 

The land in which he died unknown: 
His name has perished from the earth, 

This truth survives alone : 
That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear. 

Alternate triumphed in his breast ; 
His bliss and woe— a smile, a tear ! 

Oblivion hides the rest. 
The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
• The changing spirits' rise and fall ; 

We know that these were felt by him, 

For these are felt by all. 
He suffered— but his pangs are o'er: 

Enjoyed — but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends— his friends are now no more; 

And foes — his foes are dead. 
He loved— but whom he loved the grave 

Hath lost in its unconscious womb: 
O she was fair ! but naught could save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encountered all that troubles thee : 
He was — whatever thou hast been; 

He is — what thou shalt be. 

The rolling seasons— day and night, 

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and mam, 

Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw, 

Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 

Their ruins, since the world began, 

Of him afford no other trace 
Than this — there lived a man ! 



ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. 

Higher, higher, will we climb, 

Up to the mount of glory. 
That our names may live through time 

In our country's story ; 



693 



51 



594 aiONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

Happy, when ber welfare calls^ 
He who conquers, he who falls. 

Deeper, deeper let us toil 

In the mines of knowledge ; 
Nature's weahh and learning's spoil 

Win from school and college j 
Delve we there for richer gems 
Than: the stars of diadems. 

Onward, onward, may we pres& 

Through the path of duty; 
Virtue is true happiness, 

Excellence true beauty. 
Minds are of celestial birth ; 
Make we then a heaven of earth. 

Closer, closer, let us knit 

Hearts and hands together, 
Where our fireside comforts sit, 

In the wildest weather; 
O ! they wander wide who roam, 
For the joys of life, from home. 



PRAYER. 



Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 

Uttered or unexpressed : 
The motion of a hidden fire 

That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, 

The falling of a tear ; 
The upward glancing of an eye, 

When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 

That infant lips can try ; 
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 

The Majesty on high. 

Prayer rs the Christian's vital breath, 
The Christian's native air; 

His watchword at the gates of death : 
He enters heaven by prayer. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 

Returning from his ways; 
While angels in their songs rejoice, 

And say, '• Behold he prays!'' 

The saints in prayer appear as one. 
In word, and deed, and mind, 

When with the Father and his Son 
Their fellowship they find. 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. 595 

. Nor prayer is made on earth alone : 
The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
And Jesus, on the eternal throne, 
For sinners intercedes. 

O Thou, by whom we eome to God, 

The Life, the Truth, the way, 
The path of prayer thyself hast trod : 

Lord, teach us how to pray ! 



HUMILITY. 

The bird that soars on highest wing 
Builds on the ground her lowly nest; 

And she that doth most sweetly sing 
Sings in the shade when all things rest: 

— In lark and nightingale we see 

What honor hath hunulity. 

When Mary chose "the better part," 

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; 
And Lydia's gently-opened heart 

Was made for God's own temple meet; 
— Fairest and best adorn'd is she 
Whose clothing is humility. 

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown 

In deepest adoration bends; 
The weight of glory bows him down 

Then most when most his soul ascends; 
— Nearest the throne itself must be 
The footstool of humility. 



THE POETICAL IN CHILDHOOD AND OLD AGE. 

To come home to our own bosoms and personal experience. I 
have said that there is much, very much, of what is poetical even 
in ordinary life. Of this, Hope and Memory constitute the prin- 
cipal elements; and these, for the most part, are exercised in 
reference to age before it arrives, and childhood when it is past — 

"Till youth's delirious dream is o'er, 
Sanguine with hope, we look before, 

'J ' h e f u t u r e gootl to fi n d ; 
In age, when error charms no more. 

For bliss we look behind." 

There is this difference between rational and brute beings — that 
the latter live wholly to the present time and the present scene; 



596 MONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

and it is only under peculiar excitement, when separated from 
their young, hurried on by the impulse of appetite, or suddenly 
removed to a strange place, that they seem conscious of any objects 
but those around them, and which press immediately upon their 
senses. They do not spontaneously call up recollections ; the past, 
the absent, and the future are alike forgotten, unregarded, or un- 
known. But man, endowed with intelligence, lives in the present 
time chiefly as a point between that which is gone by, and that 
which is to come, and, in the present scene, chiefly as the centre 
of what is around him. He looks behind and before, above and 
beneath, and on either hand : but at different stages of the 
journey of life, his attention is more especially attracted in con- 
trary directions. 

The infant, so soon as it begins to think and reason, looks 
wholly before it, in the pursuit of knowledge and power, while 
desire increases with what it feeds upon, and hope grows out of 
every indulgence. Impatient of control, and eager to exercise 
over others that authority which it resents when exercised 
towards itself, though only for its protection — it longs for the 
time when it shall be as old and as strong as its broth'ers, and 
sisters, and companions, that it may enjoy the same liberties, and 
assume the same airs and rights which they do. 

When a little further grown, the boy — looking up and pressing 
onward, as he rises in stature, and feels new capacities expand- 
ing within him — rebels in secret against the yoke, the reins, and 
the scourge with which he finds himself ruled, however his ser- 
vitude may be disguised; and he sighs for maturity, that he may 
go where he pleases, and do what he likes. 

It is not, then, the toys, the sweetmeats, the holidays, the 
finery, and the caresses that are lavished upon him — these are 
mere everyday matters of course — it is something far more intel- 
lectual than any childish thing, that constitutes the charm of 
childish existence. " When I am a man V is the poetry of child- 
hood ; and, oh ! how much is comprehended in that puerile phrase, 
so often employed by little lips, unconscious of its bitter meaning; 
and so unheeded by those who are men already, and have for- 
gotten that they ever had a golden dream of that iron age — a 
dream to which all the fictions of romance are cold and unnatural ! 
'' When I am a man I" means, in the mind of a child, when he 
shall be no more that which he u ; when (as he is already by an- 
ticipation) he shall be that which he is not — that which, alas ! he 
never will be — lord of himself. If we would really know, by a 
test which will hardly deceive us, the highest happiness of what 
is {mistakenly, I am sure), deemed the happiest period of human 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. 597 

life — let us recollect what were our own emotions when we were 
cherishing ideas of manhood to come — but which never did come 
to the heart as it had been promised to the hope. 

" When T was a child !" is the poetry of age. Man, advancing 
in years, enriched with the treasure of disappointed hopes, looks 
less eagerly before him, because he expects less good, and fears 
more evil in this world, in proportion as he proves for himself 
what are the sad and sober realities of life. Eternity invites him 
to explore its mysteries, in anticipation of his approaching end ; 
when all his love, and all his hatred, and all his envy shall cease, 
and there remain no longer a portion to him in all that is done 
under the sun. 

Lecture Second. 



CHARACTERISTICS OF PROSE AND VERSE. 

There is reason as well as custom in that conventional sim- 
plicity which best becomes prose, and that conventional ornament 
which is allowed to verse; but splendid ornament is no more 
essential to verse than naked simplicity is to prose. The gravest 
critics place tragedy in the highest rank of poetical achieve- 
ments : — 

"Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy, 
With sceptred pall, come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine." 

II Penseroso. 

Yet the noblest, most impassioned scenes are frequently dis- 
tinguished from prose only by the cadence of the verse, which, 
in this species of composition, is permitted to be so loose, that, 
where the diction is the most exquisite, the melody of the rhythm 
can scarcely be perceived, except by the nicest ear. King Lear, 
driven to madness by the ingratitude and cruelty of his two elder 
daughters, is found by the youngest, Cordelia, asleep upon a bed 
in a tent in the French camp, after having passed the night in the 
open air, exposed to the fury of the elements during a tremendous 
thunder-storm. A physician and attendants are watching over 
the sufferer. While the dutiful daughter is pouring out her heart 
in tenderness over him, recounting his wrongs, his afflictions, and 
the horrors of the storm, the king awakes : but we will take the 
scene itself After some inquiries concerning his royal patient, 
the physician asks : — • 

^ "^ 51* • 



598 MONTGOiMERY. [VICTORIA 

" So please your majesty, 
That we may wake the king? He hath slept long. 

Cordelia. — Be govern'dby your knowledge, and proceed 
r the sway of your own will. Is he array'd? 

Gentleman. — Ay, madam ; in the heaviness of his sleep, 
We put fresh garments on him. 

Physician. — Be by, good madam, when we do awake him ; 
I doubt not of his temperance. 

Cordelia. — Very well. 

Physician. — Please you draw near. Louder the music there ! 

Cordelia. — Oh, my dear father! Restoration hang 

Thy medicine on my lips ; and let this kiss 
Repair those violent harms that my two sisters 
Have in thy reverence made ! 

Kent. — Kind and dear princess ! 

Cordelia. — Had you not been their father, these white flakes 
Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face 
To be expos'd against the warring winds ? 
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder ? 
In the most terrible and nimble stroke 
Of quick, cross lightning'? * * * * 

***** Mine enemy's dog, 
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night 
Against my fire. And wast thou fain, poor father, 
To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn. 
In short and musty straw 1 Alack ! alack ! 
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once 
Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him. 

Physician. — Madam, do you ; 'tis fittest. 

Cordelia. — How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty ? 

Lear. — You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave : — 
Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound 
Upon a wheel of fire. 

Cordelia. — Sir, do you know me ? 

Lear. — You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ? 

Cordelia. — Still, still far wide. 

Physician. — He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile. 

Lear. — Where have I been ? Where am I ? Fair daylight ? — 
I am mightily abus'd. I should even die with pity. 
To see another thus. I know not what to say. 
I will not swear these are my hands; — let's see. 
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured 
Of my condition! 

Cordelia. — O look upon me, sir ! 

And hold your hands in benediction o"er me : — 
Nay, sir, you must not kneel. 



1837.] MONTGOMERY. 599 

Lear. — Pray, do not mock me; 

I am a very foolish, fond old man, 

Fourscore and upward; and, to deal plainly, 

I fear I am not in my perfect mind, 

Methinks I should know you, and know this man ; 

Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant 

What place this is ; and all the skill I have 

Remembers not these garments; nor I know not 

Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me, 

For, as I am a man, I think this lady 

To be my child Cordelia! 

Cordelia. — And so I am ; I am." 

It cannot be doubted that the wbole of this scene is poetry of 
tbe highest proof ; and yet, except in the passage referring to the 
storm (in which those wonderful lines descriptive of the lightning 
might have been struck out by the flash itself), there is scarcely 
a phrase which could not have been employed in the humblest 
prose record of this conversation. Try the experiment : break up 
the rhythm, the only thing that constitutes the lines verse, and 
mark the issue : the same sentiments will remain, in nearly the 
same words ; yet the latter being differently collocated, and want- 
ing the inimitable cadence of such verse as none but Shakspeare 
has been able to construct, the charm will be broken, and the 
pathos subdued, though no mutilation could destroy it. How 
much the power of poetry depends upon the nice inflections of 
rhythm alone may be proved, by taking the finest passages of 
Milton or Shakspeare, and merely putting them into prose, with 
the least possible variation of the words themselves. The attempt 
would be like gathering up dewdrops, which appear jewels and 
pearls on the grass, but run into water in the hand; the essence 
and the elements remain, but th^ grace, the sparkle, and the form 
are gone. 

Lecture Third. 



THE PERMANENCE OP WORDS. 

An eloquent, but extravagant writer has hazarded the asser- 
tion that " words are the only things that last forever."^ Nor is 
this merely a splendid saying, or a startling paradox, that may be 
qualified by explanation into commonplace ; but with respect to 
man, and his works on earth, it is literally true. Temples and 
palaces, amphitheatres and catacombs — monuments of power, and 
magnificence, and skill, to perpetuate the memory, and preserve 

» The late Mr. William Hazlitt. 



600 MONTGOMERY. [VICTORIA 

even the ashes, of those who lived in past ages — must, in the revo- 
lutions of mundane events, not only perish themselves by violence 
or decay, but the very dust in which they perish be so scattered 
as to leave no trace of their material existence behind. There is 
no security beyond the passing moment for the most permanent 
or the most precious of these ; they are as much in jeopardy as 
ever, after having escaped the changes and chances of thousands 
of years. An earthquake may suddenly engulf the pyramids of 
Egypt, and leave the sand of the desert as blank as the tide would 
have left it on the sea-shore. A hammer in the hand of an idiot 
may break to pieces the Apollo Belvidere, or the Venus de Me- 
dici, which are scarcely less worshipped as miracles of art in our 
day than they were by idolaters of old as representatives of 
deities. 

Looking abroad over the whole world, after the lapse of nearly 
six thousand years, what have we of the past but the words in 
which its history is recorded ? What, besides a few mouldering 
and brittle ruins, which time is imperceptibly touching down into 
dust, what, besides these, remains of the glory, the grandeur, the 
intelligence, the supremacy of the Grecian republics, or the empire 
of Rome ? Nothing but the words of poets, historians, philoso- 
phers, and orators, who, being dead, yet speak, and in their im- 
mortal works still maintain their dominion .over inferior minds 
through all posterity. And these intellectual sovereigns not only 
govern our spirits from the tomb by the power of their thoughts, 
but their very voices are heard by our living ears in the accents of 
their mother-tongues. The beauty, the eloquence, and art of 
these collocations of sounds and syllables, the learned alone can 
appreciate, and that only (in some cases) after long, intense, and 
laborious investigation ; but, as thought can be made to transmi- 
grate from one body of words into another, even through all the 
languages of the earth, without losing what may be called its per- 
sonal identity, the great minds of antiquity continue to hold their 
ascendency over the opinions, manners, characters, institutions, 
and events of all ages and nations through which their posthu- 
mous compositions have found way, and been made the earliest 
subjects of study, the highest standards of morals, and the most 
perfect examples of taste, to the master-minds in every state of 
civilized society. In this respect, the " words" of inspired pro- 
phets and apostles among the Jews, and those of gifted writers 
among the ancient Gentiles, may truly be said to ^'last forever.'' 

Retrospect of Literature . 



1837.] BOWLES. 601 



WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, 1762—1850. 

William Lisle Bowles, the son of the Rev. WilHam Thomas Bowles, 
vicar of King's-Sutton, Northamptonshire, was born at that place on the 
25th of September, 1762. In 1776, he was placed on the Wykeham found- 
ation at Winchester,' under Dr. Joseph Warton.^ Naturally a timid, diffi- 
dent boy, he ever expressed a grateful obligation to the kind encourage- 
ment he received from that eminent man, who sympathized very cordially 
with any manifestation of poetic talents. During his last year at Winchester, 
he was at the head of the school, and in consequence of this distinction he 
was elected, in 1781, a scholar of Trinity College, Oxford. In 1783, he 
gained the chancellor's prize for Latin verse, the subject being Calpe 
Obsessa, " The Siege of Gibraltar." In 1789, he published twenty of his 
beautiful sonnets, which were followed in the same year by " Verses to 
John Howard, on his State of the Prisons and Lazarettos," and in 1790 
by " The Grave of Howard." These and other poetical works were col- 
lected in 1796, and so well were they received, that repeated editions were 
published. 

In 1797, he was married to Magdalen, daughter of the Rev. Charles 
Wake, Prebendary of Westminster. She died some years before him, 
leaving no. children. Having entered the ministry, he obtained the vicar- 
age of Bremhill'* in 1804, which was his constant residence for near a 
quarter of a century. In the latter part of his life he resided at Salisbury, 
where he died on the 7th of April, 1850. 

It would be difficult to enumerate all of Mr. Bowles' publications: but 
the following are his principal poems. "The Battle of the Nile," pub- 
lished in 1799; "The Sorrows of Switzerland," in 1801 ; " The Spirit of 
Discovery, or Conquest of Ocean," in 1805; "The Missionary of the 
Andes," in 1815; "The Grave of the Last Saxon," in 1822; "St. John 
in Patmos," in 1832. His last poetical compositions were contained in a 
volume published in 1837, entitled " Scenes and Shadows of Days De- 
parted, a Narrative ; accompanied with Poems of Youth, and some other 

• Winchester is about sixty-seven miles south-west from London, is one of 
the oldest cities of England, and became the capital of the country when it 
was united under the sway of Egbert. Here lie the bones of Alfred the Great ; 
here, in 1002, commenced the horrid massacre of the Danes ; here William 
the Conqueror built a castle and palace ; here King John ratified his igno- 
minious submission to the Pope ; and here was the scene of the disgraceful 
trial of Sir Walter Raleigh. Indeed, it is full of the most interesting historic 
associations. The most interesting building here is Wykeham College, which 
takes its name from William of Wykeham, originally a poor boy of the neigh- 
boring town of Wykeham, and was educated in the old grammar-school of 
Winchester, on the very spot where the college now stands. This was begun 
in 1387, and completed in six years. It has a large revenue, and accommo- 
dates about one hundred boys. 

^ See his life at p. 17. 

» A town in Wiltshire, about seventy-seven miles west from London. 



602 BOWLES. [VICTORIA 

Poems of Melancholy and Fancy, in the Journey of Life from Youth to 
Age." He also printed several editions of a pleasing little volume of 
simple poetry, entitled "The Village Verse-Book," written to excite in 
the youthful mind the first feelings of religion and humanity, from familiar 
rural objects. 

In 1807, Mr. Bowles edited " The Works of Alexander Pope, in Verse 
and Prose," in ten volumes; and in this labor (it would seem not of love) 
he displayed, as editor, what is rather a singular phenomenon in the literary 
world, prepossessions adverse to the claims and merits of his author. He 
laid down this proposition as a universal truth, "that all images drawn 
from what is beautiful or sublime in the works of nature, are more beauti- 
ful and sublime than a7iy images drawn from art; and that they are there- 
fore, per se, more poetical." The truth of this dogma was of course 
warmly disputed, and Campbell, Byron, and others entered into the contest 
in behalf of Pope. The latter, doubtless, had the better of the argument: 
a pyramid may raise as strong emotions in the breast as the mountain; 
and, as Byron said, a ship in the wind, with all sail set, is a more poetical 
object than " a hog in the wind," though the hog is all nature, and the 
ship all art. 

Mr. Bowles is probably more indebted for his fame to his Sonnets than 
to any of his other writings. Of these, Mr. Hallam, in an address recently 
delivered at the anniversary of the Royal Society of Literature, thus speaks : 
" The Sonnets of Bowles may be reckoned among the first fruits of a new 
era in poetry. They came in an age when a commonplace facility in 
rhyming on the one hand, and an almost nonsensical affectation in a new 
school on the other, had lowered the standard so much, that critical judges 
spoke of English poetry as of something nearly extinct, and disdained to 
read what they were sure to disapprove. In these sonnets there was ob- 
served a grace of expression, a musical versification, and especially an air 
of melancholy tenderness, so congenial to the poetical temperament, which 
still, after sixty years of a more propitious period than that which imme- 
diately preceded their publication, preserves for their author a highly re- 
spectable position among our poets." But it is time to let our readers 
judge for themselves. 



SONNET AT OSTEND. 

How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal ! 
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze 
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, 

So piercing to my heart their force I feel! 

And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, 
And now, along the white and level tide, 
They fling their melancholy music wide; 

Bidding me many a tender thought recall 
Of summer-days, and those delightful years 

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, 



BOWLES. 

The mournful magic of their rningUng chime 

First wak'd my wondering childhood into tears! 
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, 
The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more. 



SONNET ON THE RHINE- 

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow 
(Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) 
Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine 

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow 

In murmurs parted : varying as we go, 
Lo ! the woods open, and the rocks retire. 
Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire, 

'Mid the bright landscape's track, unfolding slow. 

Here dark, with furrow'd aspect, like despair, 

Frowns the bleak cliff— there on the woodland's side 
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; 

Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, 

Would wish to linger many a summer's day. 

Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 



SONNET TO TIME. 

Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence 
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 

The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away ; 

On thee I rest my only hope at last, 

And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 

1 may look back on every sorrow past. 

And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile — 
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, 
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, 
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while: 
Yet, ah ! how much must that poor heart endure 
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure ! 



SONNET TO SUMMER. 

How shall I meet thee. Summer, wont to fill 

My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide 
First came, and on each coomb's romantic side 

Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow billl 



603 



604 BOWLES. [VICTORIA 

Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the stream, 

As with the songs of joyance and of hope 

The hedge-rows shall ring loud) and on the slope 
The poplars sparkle in the transient beam ; 
The shrubs and laurels which I lov'd to tendj 

Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, 
With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend, 

Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight! 
But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes. 
And weep for her who in the cold grave lies ! 



SONNET — WINTER EVENING AT HOME. 

Fair Moon! that at the chilly day's decline 
Of sharp December, through my cottage pane 
Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane; 

In thought, to scenes serene and still as thine, 
Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey 
Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way ; 

And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light, 
Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall, 
Sombrous and strange upon the darkening wall, 

Ere the clear tapers chase the deepening night! 

Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, 

Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze, 

I think around me in this twilight gloo^, 

I but remark mortality's sad doom ; 

Whilst hope and joy, cloudless and soft, appear 

In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere. 



SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCHYARD. 

So passes, silent o'er the dead, thy shade. 

Brief Time ! and hour by hour, and day by day, 

The pleasing pictures of the present fade, 
And like a summer vapor steal away. 

And have not they, who here forgotten lie 

(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past). 
Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye, 

Nor thought it fled — how certain and how fast? 

Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, 

Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath 

The pastor and his flock alike have slept. 

And "dust to dust" proclaimed the stride of death. 

Another race succeeds, and counts the hour, 
Careless alike ; the hour still seems to smile, 



1837.] BOWLES. 605 

As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power; 
So smiling, and so perishing the while. 

I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound 
(When to these scenes a stranger I drew near). 

Proclaim the tidings of the village round. 

While memory wept upon the good man's bier. 

Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells 
Ring merrily when my brief days are gone ; 

While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells. 
And strangers gaze upon my humble stone! 

Enough, if we may wait in calm content 

The hour that bears us to the silent sod ; 
Blameless improve the time that Heaven has lent. 

And leave the issue to thy will, O God. 



THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS. 

When evening listened to the dripping oar. 

Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar, 

By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious prid< 

Reflects that stately structure on his side. 

Within whose walls, as their long labors close, 

The wanderers of the ocean find repose. 

We wore in social ease the hours away. 

The passing visit of a summer's day. 

Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone, 
1 lingered on the river's marge alone; 
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray. 
And watched the last bright sunshine steal away. 

As thus I mused amidst the various train 
Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main. 
Two sailors — well I marked them (as the beam 
Of parting day yet lingered on the stream, 
And the sun sunk behind the shady reach)— 
Hastened with tottering footsteps to the beach. 
The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight ; 
Total eclipse had veiled the other's sight 
Forever! As I drew more anxious near, 
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear ; 
Bat neither said a word ! He who was blind 
Stood as to feel the comfortable wind 
That gently lifted his gray hair: his face 
Seemed then of a faint smile to wear the trace. 

The other fixed his gaze upon the light 
Parting; and when the sun had vanished quite, 
Meihought a starting tear that Heaven might bless, 
Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness, 

52 



606 MOORE. [VICTORIA 

Came to his aged eyes, and touched his cheek! 

And then, as meek and silent as before. 

Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the shore. 

As they departed through the unheeding crowd, 
A caged bird sung from the casement loud; 
And then I heard alone that blind man say, 
"The music of the bird is sweet to-day!" 
I said, " O Heavenly Father! none may know 
The cause these have for silence or for woe!" 
Here they appear heart-stricken or resigned 
Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind. 

There is a world, a pure unclouded clime, 
Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time! 
Nor loss of friends! Perhaps, when yonder bell 
Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell, 
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to night, 
They thought upon that world of distant light; 
And when the blind man, lifting light his hair. 
Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer ; 
Then sighed, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head, 
"No morn will shine on me till I am dead!" 



THOMAS MOORE, 1780 

Thomas Moore, the son of a respectable tradesman of Dublin, was born 
in that city on the 28th of May, 1780. After the usual preparatory course 
of study, he entered Trinity College, in his native city, where he gradu- 
ated in November, 1799. He then went to England, and became a student 
in the Middle Temple, but, though ultimately called to the bar, be gave up 
his time chiefly to literary pursuits. In 1800, he published his translation 
of the " Odes of Anacreon," which were received with great favor, and 
elicited, from the Hon. Henry Erskine, the following complimentary 
impromptu : — 

" Ah ! mourn not for Anacreon dead — 
Ah! weep not for Anacreon fled — 
The lyre still breathes he touched before. 
For we have one Anacreon Moore." 

Soon after this he published his miscellaneous poems, under the title of 
" The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little" — a volume which was 
censured, and censured severely, for its licentiousness, and of which the 
author, many years afterwards, was heartily ashamed. In 1806, he visited 
our country, and published, shortly after his return to England, his remarks 
on American society and manners, in a volume entitled " Epistles, Odes, 



1837.] MOORE. 607 

and other Poems." This was reviewed with great and deserved severity 
in the " Edinburgh Review," by Mr. Jeffrey,' which caused Moore to 
send him a challenge. A meeting accordingly took place, but the duel was 
prevented by the interference of the police, and the ball of Jeffrey's pistol 
was found to have fallen out in the carriage. This gave rise to the story 
that paper bullets had been quietly substituted by the seconds for those of 
lead, as well as to Lord Byron's severe version of it in his " English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers, "^ which, for the time, so highly offended 
Moore, that he sent his brother bard a challenge; the latter, however, left 
England before it reached him, and, on his return, the two became recon- 
ciled, and ultimately warm personal friends. 

In 1812 appeared his celebrated " Intercepted Letters, or The Two- 
Penny Post-Bag, by Thomas Brown, the Younger." This was followed 
by the "Fudge Family in Paris," and " Fables for the Holy Alliance ;" 
— all satires upon the passing topics of the day ; but — though evincing 
great wit, and a rich playful fancy, and for the time extremely popular — all 
destined to pass away and be forgotten. But not so his " Irish Songs and 
Melodies," and his " Hebrew Melodies," which display a depth of fervor, 
a richness of fancy, and a touching pathos, united to exquisite beauty 
and polish of versification, that will cause them to be read and admired as 
long as the English language endures. 

In 1817 appeared his most elaborate poem, " Lalla Rookh," an ori- 
ental romance, the accuracy of which, as regards topographical, antiquarian, 
and characteristic details, has been vouched by numerous competent 
authorities; and which unites the purest and softest tenderness with the 
loftiest dignity, while its poetry " is brilliant and gorgeous — rich to excess 

' <' The author may boast, if the boast can please him, of being the most 
licentious of modern versifiers, and the most poetical of those who, in our 
tmies, have devoted their talents to the propagation of immorality. We re- 
gard this book, indeed, as a public nuisance, and would willingly trample it 
down by one short movement of contempt and indignation, had we not reason 
to apprehend that it was abetted by patrons who are entitled to a more re- 
^ectful remonstrance, and by admirers who may require a more extended 
exposition of their dangers." 

Edinburgh Review, vol. viii. p. 456. 

^ "Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in his future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
Can none remember that eventful day, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray. 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by ? 
Oh day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 
Dunedin Castle felt a secret shock ; 
Dark roU'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 
Tweed ruflled half iiis wave to form a tear, 
The other half pursued his calm career."* 

* He means by this to insinuate that the English half of the river had nothing 
to fear. 



608 MOORE. [VICTORIA 

with imagery and ornament — and oppressive from its very sweetness and 
splendor. The genius of the poet moves with grace and freedom under his 
load of eastern magnificence, and the reader is fascinated by his prolific 
fancy, and the scenes of loveliness and splendor which are depicted with 
such vividness and truth." In 1823 came out " The Loves of the Angels," 
which contains many passages of great beauty, but, as a whole, inferior to 
his former productions. The poem is founded on " the Eastern story of 
the angels Harut and Marut, and the Rabbinical fictions of the lives of 
Uzziel and Shamchazai," with which Moore shadowed out " the fall of 
the soul from its original purity — the loss of light and happiness which it 
suffers in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures — and the punish- 
ments, both from conscience and Divine justice, with which impurity, 
pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of Heaven, are sure 
to be visited." 

In 1825 was published his "Life of Sheridan," which, "with some 
omissions, and perhaps a few mistakes, some little faults of style, and some 
precipitate opinions, we do not hesitate to characterize as the best his- 
torical notice yet published of the events of our own times. Without pre- 
tending to give — what this generation can scarcely yet need — a particular 
or connected detail of the transactions to which it refers, it exhibits the 
clearest and most intelligent account of all the great questions which were 
agitated during that momentous period — the best estimate of the great 
events by which it was distinguished — and not only the ablest exposition 
of the causes which led to them, and the principles they served either to 
establish or expose, but the most truly impartial, temperate, and dispas- 
sionate view of the merits of the individuals concerned in them — the actual 
value of their services and amount of their offendings, with the excuses 
which the times or circumstances should suggest for them, that we ever 
recollect to have met with, in the difficult and dangerous department of 
contemporary history."^ 

In 1830 appeared his " Life of Byron," in two volumes, by which, it has 
been well said, " neither the reputation of the author was advanced, nor 
the character of Lord Byron vindicated." In addition to these works, he 
is the author of " Corruption and Intolerance, a Poem ;" "The Skeptic, 
a Philosophical Satire;" " Rhymes on the Road;" "The Epicurean, a 
Tale ;" and " The Life of Captain Rock." He has also written a number 
of miscellaneous pieces, both in prose and verse, which have been inserted 
in various periodical journals, and a large number of beautiful songs, which 
have become permanently popular. 

No English poet of the present century has displayed a greater command 
of rich language and luxurious imagery than Thomas Moore, but, with the 
exception of his " Sacred Melodies" and a portion of " Lalla Rookh," we 
shall find but little elevated moral feeling, or wise and manly reflections. 
It has been well said that he has " worked little in the durable and per- 
manent materials of poetry, but has spent his prime in enriching the stately 

* Edinburgh Review, vol. xlv. p. 2. 



1837.] MOORE. 609 

structure with exquisite ornaments, foliage, flowers, and gems. He has 
preferred the myrtle to the olive or the oak. His longer poems want 
human interest. Tenderness and pathos he undoubtedly possesses ; but 
they are fleeting and evanescent — not embodied in his verse in any tale of 
melancholy grandeur, or strain of affecting morality or sentiment." His 
most finished performances are to be found in " Lalla Rookh ;" some por- 
tions of the " Fire Worshippers" have scarcely been surpassed; and the 
character of Mokanna, in the " Veiled Frophet of Khorassan,'' is a " sub- 
lime conception sublimely executed." 



PARADISE AND THE PERI. 

One morn a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; 
And as she listen'd to the Springs 

Of Life within, like music flowing, 
And caught the light upon her wings 

Through the half-opened portal glowing, 
She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 

** How happy," exclaimed this child of air, 
"Are the holy spirits who wander there, 

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall : 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 
One blossom of Heaven outblooms them all! 

" Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,^ 

And sweetly the founts of that valley fall ; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,^ 
Yet — oh, 'tis only the blest can say 

How the waters of Heaven outshine them all 

" Go wing thy flight from star to star. 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres. 
And multiply each through endless years. 
One minute of Heaven is worth them all!" 



' " Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is 
called Char Chenaur, from the plane-trees upon it." 

Forster. 
^ " The Altan Kol, or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of 
Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabit- 
ants all summer in gathering it." 

Description of Tibet in Pinkerton, 

52* 



610 MOORE. [VICTORIA 

Now, upon Syria's land of roses^ 
Softly the light of eve reposes, 
And, like a glory, the broad sun 
Hangs over sainted Lebanon; 
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, 

And whitens with eternal sleet. 
While summer, in a vale of flowers, 

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 

To one who look'd from upper air 
O'er all the enchanted regions there. 
How beauteous must have been the glow, 
The life, the sparkling from below ! 
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
Of golden melons on their banks, 
More golden where the sun-light falls ; 
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls^ 
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright, 
As they were all alive with light ; — • 
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 
Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, 
With their rich restless wings, that gleam 
Variously in the crimson beam 
Of the warm west — as if inlaid 
With brilliants from the mine, or made 
Of tearless rainbows, such as span 
Th' unclouded skies of Peristan. 
And then, the mingling sounds that come, 
Of shepherd's ancient reed,3 with hum 
Of the wild bees of Palestine, 

Banqueting through the flowery vales; — 
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, 

And woods so full of nightingales ! 

But naught can charm the luckless Peri ; 
Her soul is sad — her wings are weary — 
Joyless she sees the sun look down 
On that great temple, once his own,^ 
Whose lonely columns stand sublime, 

Flinging their shadows from on high. 
Like dials, which the wizard. Time, 

Had rais'd to count his ages by ! 

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd 
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, 

* Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and deli- 
cate species of rose for which that country has been always famous ; hence, 
Suristan, the Land of Roses. 

^ " The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple 
of the Sun, at Balbec, amounted to many thousands ; the ground, the walls, 
and stones of the rumed buildings were covered with them." 

Brtice. 
» " The Syrinx, or Pan's pipe, is still a pastoral instrument in Syria." 

Russel. 

* The Temple of the Sun at Balbec. 



1837.] MOORE. 611 

Some amulet of gems anneal'd 
111 upper fires, some tabret seal'd 

With the great name of Solomon, 

Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes, 
May teach her where, beneath the moon, 
In earth or ocean lies the boon, 
The charm that can restore so soon. 

An erring spirit to the skies ! 

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ; — 

Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, 

Nor have the golden bov^'ers of even 
In the rich west begun to wither; — 
When, o'er the vale of Balbec, winging 

Slowly, she sees a child at play. 
Among the rosy wild flowers singing, 

As rosy and as wild as they ; 
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, 
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,^ 
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, 
Like winged flowers or flying gems; — 
And, near the boy, who, tir'd with play, 
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay. 
She saw a wearied man dismount 

From his hot steed, and on the brink 
Of a small imaret's rustic fount 

Impatient fling him down to drink. 

Then swift his haggard brow he turned 

To the fair child, who fearless sat. 
Though never yet hath daybeam burn'd 

Upon a brow more fierce than that — 
Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire, 
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire! 
In which the Peri's eye could read 
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; 
The ruin'd maid — the shrine profan'd — 
Oaths broken — and the threshold stain'd 
"With blood of guests — there written, all. 
Black as the damning drops that fall 
From the denouncing angel's pen. 
Ere mercy weeps them out again ! 

Yet tranquil now that man of crime 
(As if the balmy evening time 
Soften'd his spirit), looked and lay, 
Watching the rosy infant's play. — 
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 

* "You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of 
beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire procured 
for them the name of Damsels." 

Sonnini, 



612 MOORE. [VICTORIA 

Met that unclouded joyous gaze, 
As torches that have burnt all night 
Through some impure and godless rite, 

Encounter morning's glorious rays. 

But hark ! the vesper-call to prayer, 

As slow the orb of daylight sets, 
Is rising sweetly on the air, 

From Syria's thousand minarets ! 
The boy has started from the bed 
Of flowers, where he had laid his head. 
And down upon the fragrant sod 

Kneels, with his forehead to the south, 
Lisping th' eternal name of God 

From purity's own cherub mouth, 
And looking, while his hands and eyes 
Are lifted to the glowing skies, 
Like a stray babe of Paradise, 
Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
And seeking for its home again ! 
Oh 'twas a sight — that Heaven— that child — 
A scene which might have well beguil'd 
E'en haughty Eblis of a sigh 
For glories lost and peace gone by ! 

And how felt he, the wretched man. 

Reclining there — while memory ran 

O'er many a year of guilt and strife. 

Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, 

Nor found one sunny resting-place. 

Nor brought him back one branch of grace ! 

" There was a time," he said, in mild 

Heart-humbled tones, " thou blessed child ! 

When young, and haply pure as thou, 

I look'd and pray'd like thee — but now — " 

He hung his head — each nobler aim 

And hope and feeling, which had slept 
From boyhood's hour, that instant came 

Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept ! 

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! 

In whose benign redeeming flow 
Is felt the first, the only sense 

Of guileless joy that guilt can know. 

" There 's a drop," said the Peri," that down from the moon 
Falls through the withering airs of June 
Upon Egypt's land,' of so healing a power. 
So balmy a virtue, that e'en in the hour 
That drop descends, contagion dies. 
And health reanimates earth and skies ! — 



» The Nucla, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt, precisely on St. 
John's day, in June, and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague. 



1837.] 



MOORE. 



613 



Ob, is it not thus, thou man of sin. 
The precious tears of repentance fall ? 

Though foul thy fiery plagues within, 

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all ! 

And now— bfehold him kneeling there 
By the child's side, in humble prayer. 
While, the same sunbeams shine upon 
The guilty and the guiltless one, 
And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven 
The triumph of a soul forgiven. 

'T was when the golden orb had set, 
While on their knees they linger'd yet, 
There fell a light more lovely far 
Than ever came from sun or star, 
Upon the tear, that, warm and meek, 
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek: 
To mortal eye this light might seem 
A northern flash or meteor's beam — 
But well the enraptur'd Peri knew 
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw 
From heaven's gate, to hail that tear 
Her harbinger of glory near ! 

" Joy, joy forever ! ray task is done — 
The gates are pass'd, and heaven is won !" 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy gifts fading away! 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still ! 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known. 

To which time will but make thee more dear ! 
Oh! the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close. 
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, 

The same look which she turned when he rose ! 



614 MOORE. [VICTORIA 



I SAW THY FORM. 

I saw thy form in youthful prime. 

Nor thought that pale decay 
Would steal before the steps of time, 

And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
Yet still thy features wore that light 

Which fleets not with the breath ; 
And life ne'er looked more truly bright 

Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 

As streams that run o'er golden mines, 

Yet humbly, calmly glide. 
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 

Within their gentle tide, Mary! 
So, veird beneath the simplest guise, 

Thy radiant genius shone, 
And that which charm'd all other eyes 

Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary ! 

If souls could always dwell above, 

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; 
Or, could we keep the souls we love, 

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 
Though many a gifted mind we meet, 

Though fairest forms we see. 
To live with them is far less sweet 

Than to remember thee, Mary ! 



WHEN IN THE COLD EARTH. 

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved, 

Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then ; 
Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed. 

Weep o'er them in silence and close it again. 
And, oh ! if 'tis pain to remember how far 

From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam. 
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star 

That arose on his darkness and guided him home. 

From thee and thy innocent beauty first came 

The revealings that taught him true Love to adore, 
To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame 

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. 
O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild. 

Thou earnest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea; 
And, if happiness purely and glowingly smiled 

On his evening horizon, the light was from thee. 



1837.] 



MOORE. 615 



And though sometimes the shade of past folly would rise, 

And though Falsehood again would allure liim to stray, 
He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, 

And the folly, the falsehood soon vanished away. 
As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, 

At the daybeam alone could its lustre repair. 
So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him. 

He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there. 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their music tells. 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime! 

Those joyous hours are past away ! 
And many a heart that then was gay. 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
And hears no more those evening bells ! 

And so 'twill be when I am gone ; 
That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells. 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 



THOU ART; OH GOD ! 



Thou art, oh God! the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night. 
Are but reflections caught from thee. 

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are thine ! 

When Day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of Even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven — 

Those hues, that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine ! 

When Night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine ! 



616 MOORE. [VICTORIA 

When youthful Spring around us breathes, 

Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 
And every flower the Summer wreathes 

Is born beneath that kindling eye. 
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 
And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 

This world is all a fleeting show. 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 

There 's nothing true but heaven ! 

And false the light on Glory's plume. 

As fading hues of even; 
And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom 
Are blossoms gather 'd for the tomb — 

There 's nothing bright but heaven ! 

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 

From wave to wave we 're driven ; 
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray. 
Serve but to light the troubled way — 
There 's nothing calm but heaven! 



THE BIRD LET LOOSE. 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies. 

When hastening fondly home, 
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam. 
But high she shoots through air and light. 

Above all low delay. 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight. 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God ! from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through virtue's purer air. 

To hold my course to thee ! 
No sin to cloud — no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs; — 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom in her wings ! 



1837.] MOORE. 617 



OH ! THOU WHO dry' ST THE MOURNER' S TEAR ! 

Oh ! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, 

How dark this world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 

We could not fly to Thee. 
The frfends who in our sunshine live, 

When winter comes are flown; 
And he who has but tears to give. 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart. 

Which, like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part, 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 

And even the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, 

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too ! 
Oh ! who would bear life's stormy doom. 

Did not thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom 

Our peace-branch from above 1 
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day ! 



THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. 

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
My temple, Lord ! that arch of thine ; 
My censer's breath the mountain airs, 
And silent thoughts my only prayers.^ 

My choir shall be the moonlight waves. 
When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
Or when the stillness of the sea. 
Even more than music, breathes of Thee! 

I' 11 seek, by day, some glade unknown, 
All li^ht and silence, like thy throne! 
And the pale stars shall be, at night. 
The only eyes that watch my rite. 

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 
Shall be my pure and shining book. 



' Pii orant tacite. 

53 



618 MOORE. [VICTORIA 

Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
The glories of thy wondrous name. 

I 'II read thy anger in the rack 

That clouds awhile the daybeam's track j 

Thy mercy in the azure hue 

Of sunny brightness breaking through ! 

There 's nothing bright above, below, 
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
But in its light my soul can see 
Some feature of the Deity! 

There 's nothing dark below, above, 
But in its gloom I trace thy love, 
And meekly wait that moment when 
Thy touch shall turn all bright again I 



LIKE MORNING; WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE, 

Like morning, when her early breeze 
Breaks up the surface of the seas, 
That, in their furrows, dark with night. 
Her hand may sow the seeds of light — 

Thy grace can send its breathings o'er 
The spirit, dark and lost before. 
And, freshening all its depths, prepare 
For truth divine to enter there ! 

Till David touch'd his sacred lyre, 
In silence lay the unbreathing wire — 
But when he swept its chords along, 
Even angels stoop'd to hear that song. 

So sleeps the soul till thou, O Lord, 
Shall deign to touch its lifeless chord — 
Till, waked by thee, its breath shall rise 
In rnusic, worthy of the skies! 



COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. 

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish. 
Come, at the shrine of God fervently kneel ; 

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish- 
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. 

Joy of tlie desolate, light of the straying, 

Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, 

Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying — 
"Earth has no sorrows that Heaven cannot cure." 



1837.] WILSON. 619 

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, 
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal. 

Sweet as that lieavenly promise Hope sings us — 
" Eartli has no sorrow that God cannot heal ?" 



JOHN WILSON, 1788 

Professor Wilson, the distinguished Professor of Moral Philosopiiy in 
the University of Edinburgh, was born in the year 1788, in the town of 
Paisley. He was the son of an opulent manufacturer, and received his 
elementary education at Glasgow University, whence, in due time, he was 
transferred to Magdalene College, Oxford. Here his poetical genius was 
developed, and he carried off the Newdigate Prize from a vast number of 
competitors for the best English poem of fifty lines. To fine genius, and 
great powers of literary acquisition, he added a remarkable taste for gym- 
nastic exercises and athletic sports. After being four years at Oxford, he 
purchased a small but beautiful estate, named Elleray, on the banks of 
Lake Windermere, where he went to reside. " He married, built a house 
and a yacht, enjoyed himself among the magnificent scenery of the lakes, 
wrote poetry, and cultivated the society of Wordsworth." At this period 
he published the first of his beautiful poems, " The Isle of Palms," a volume 
that placed him at once by the side of some of our most elegant modern 
poets. Subsequently he became a member of the Scottish bar, and in a 
few years received the appointment to that chair which he has so long filled 
with honor. His permanent reputation will rest upon his prose writings. 
His contributions to " Blackwood's Magazine" raised the whole tone 
and cliaracter of magazine literature — for in this he poured forth the riches 
of his fancy, learning, and taste ; displaying also the peculiarities of his 
sanguine and impetuous temperament. The most valuable of these con- 
tributions have been collected and published in three volumes, under the 
title of "The Recreations of Christopher North." His poetical works 
have been collected in two volumes, consisting of the "Isle of Palms," 
and " The City of the Plague," and several smaller pieces. 

The great fault of his prose writings consists in his extreme opinions, 
which are often carried to a point that makes them perfectly ridiculous, and 
therefore harmless: and at times one is doubtful whether he is speaking 
his real opinions, or writmg a mere caricature. For instance, in his paper 
entitled " An Hour's Talk about Poetry," in his extravagant panegyric 
upon the English female poets, he thus breaks forth— " The truth is too 
glaring to be denied, that all male rational creatures are in the long run 
vile, corrupt, and polluted — but all women are pure as dewdrops or moon- 
beams, and know not the meaning of evil." Now this is all "stuff;" and 



620 WILSON. [VICTORIA 

whether he means it for truth or ridicule, it equally fails of its object— if it 
had an object. 

Professor Wilson's great strength lies in his power of pathetic descrip- 
tion ; and here he has never been surpassed. "His Lights and Shadows 
of Scottish Life" contain many touches of true pathos that have as much 
chance of becoming immortal as anything of a similar character in the 
English language. 



THE HEAD-STONE. 

The coffin was let down to the bottom of the grave, the planks 
were removed from the heaped-up brink, the first rattling clods 
had struck their knell, the quick shoveling v*^as over, and the long, 
broad, skilfully cut pieces of turf were aptly joined together, and 
trimly laid by the beating spade, so that the newest mound in the 
churchyard was scarcely distinguishable from those that were 
grown over by the undisturbed grass and daisies of a luxuriant 
spring. The burial was soon over; and the party, with one con- 
senting motion, having uncovered their heads, in decent reverence 
of the place and occasion, were beginning to separate, and about 
to leave the churchyard. 

Here, some acquaintances, from distant parts of the parish, who 
had not had opportunity of addressing each other in the house 
that had belonged to the deceased, nor in the course of the few 
hundred yards that the little procession had to move over from 
his bed to his grave, were shaking hands quietly but cheerfully, 
and inquiring after the welfare of each other's families. There, 
a small knot of neighbors were speaking, without exaggeration, 
of the respectable character which the deceased had borne, and 
mentioning to one another little incidents of his life, some of 
them so remote as to be known only to the gray-headed persons 
of the group; while a few yards farther removed from the spot, 
were standing together parties who discussed ordinary concerns, 
altogether unconnected with the funeral, such as the state of the 
markets, the promise of the season, or change of tenants; but still 
with a sobriety of manner and voice that was insensibly produced 
by the influence of the simple ceremony now closed, by the quiet 
graves around, and the shadow of the spire and gray walls of the 
house of God. 

Two men yet stood together at the head of the grave, with 
countenances of sincere, but unimpassioned grief. They were 
brothers, the only sons of him who had been buried. And there 
was something in their situation that naturally kept the eyes of 



1837.] WILSON. ■ 621 

many directed upon them for a long time, and more intently 
than would have been the case, had there been nothing more ob- 
servable about them than the common symptoms of a common 
sorrow. But these two brothers, who were now standing at the 
head of their father's grave, had for some years been totally 
estranged from each other, and the only words that had passed 
between them, during all that time, had been uttered within a few 
days pastj during the necessary preparations for the old man's 
funeral. 

No deep and deadly quarrel was between these brothers, and 
neither of them could distinctly tell the cause of this unnatural 
estrangement. Perhaps dim jealousies of their father's favor — 
selfish thoughts that will sometimes force themselves into poor 
men's hearts, respecting temporal expectations — unaccommodat- 
ing manners on both sides — taunting words that mean little when 
uttered, but which rankle and fester in remembrance — imagined 
opposition of interests, that, duly considered, would have been 
found one and the same — these, and many other causes, slight 
when single, but strong when rising up together in one baneful 
band, had gradually but fatally infected their hearts, till at last 
they who in youth had been seldom separate, and truly attached, 
now met at market, and, miserable to say, at church, with dark 
and averted faces, like different clansmen during a feud. 

Surely if anything could have softened their hearts towards 
each other, it must have been to stand silently, side by side, while 
the earth, stones, and clods, were falling down upon their father's 
coffin. And doubtless their hearts were so softened. But pride, 
though it cannot prevent the holy affections of nature from being- 
felt, may prevent them from being shown ; and these two brothers 
stood there together, determined not to let each other know the 
mutual tenderness that, in spite of them, was gushing up in their 
hearts, and teaching them the unconfessed folly and wickedness 
of their causeless quarrel. 

A head-stone had been prepared, and a person came forward to 
plant it. The elder brother directed him how to place it — a plain 
stone with a sand-glass, skull, and cross-bones, chiselled not rudely, 
and a few words inscribed. The younger brother regarded the 
operation with a troubled eye, and said, loudly enough to be heard 
by several of the bystanders, ''William, this was not kind in 
you; you should have told me of this. I loved my father as well 
as you could love him. You were the elder, and, it may be, the 
favorite son; but I had a right in nature to have joined you in 
ordering this head-stone, had I not?" 

During these words, the stone was sinking into the earthy and 
53* 



622 * WILSON. [victoria 

many persons who were on their way from the grave returned. 
For a while the elder brother said nothing, for he had a conscious- 
ness in his heart that he ought to have consulted his father's son 
in designing this last becoming mark of affection and respect to 
his memory ; so the stone was planted in silence, and now stood 
erect, decently and simply among the other unostentatious memo- 
rials of the humble dead. 

The inscription merely gave the name and age of the deceased, 
and told that the stone had been erected " by his affectionate 
sons.'^ The sight of these words seemed to soften the displeasure 
of the angry man, and he said, somewhat more mildly, ^' Yes, we 
were his affectionate sons, and since my name is on the stone, I 
am satisfied, brother. We have not drawn together kindly of late 
years, and perhaps never may; but I acknowledge and respect 
your worth; and here, before our own friends, and before the 
friends of our father, with my foot above his head, I express my 
willingness to be on other and better terms with you, and if we 
cannot command love in our hearts, let us, at least, brother, bar 
out all unkindness.^' 

The minister, who had attended the funeral, and had something 
intrusted to him to say publicly before he left the churchyard, 
now came forward, and asked the elder brother why he spake not 
regarding this matter. He saw that there was something of a 
cold and sullen pride rising up in his heart, for not easily may 
any man hope to dismiss from the chamber of his heart even the 
vilest guest, if once cherished there. With a solemn, and almost 
severe air, he looked upon the relenting man, and then, chaoging 
his countenance into serenity, said gently. 

Behold how good a thing it is, 

And how becoming well, 
Together such as brethren are, 

In unity to dwell. 

The time, the place, and this beautiful expression of a natural 
sentiment, quite overcame a heart in which many kind, if not 
warm, affections dwelt; and the man thus appealed to bowed 
down his head and wept. '^ Give me your hand, brother;" and 
it was given, while a murmur of satisfaction arose from all pre- 
sent, and all hearts felt kindlier and more humanely towards each 
other. 

As the brothers stood fervently, but composedly, grasping each 
other's hand, in the little hollow that lay between the grave of 
their mother, long since dead, and of their father, whose shroud 
was haply not yet still from the fall of dust to dust, the minister 
stood beside them with a pleasant countenance, and said, ^^I must 



1837.] WILSON. 623 

fulfil the promise I made to your father on his death-bed. I must 
read to you a few words which his hand wrote at an hour when 
his tongue denied its office. I must not say that you did your 
duty to your old father ; for did he not often beseech you, apart 
from one another, to be reconciled, for your own sakes as Christ- 
ians, for his sake, and for the sake of the mother who bare you, 
and, Stephen, who died that you might be born ? When the palsy 
struck him for the last time, you were both absent, nor was it 
your fault that you were not beside the old man when he died. 

''As long as sense continued with him here, did he think of 
you two, and of you two alone. Tears were in his eyes; I saw 
them there, and on his cheek too, when no breath came from his 
lips. But of this no more. He died with this paper in his hand; 
and he made me know that I was to read it to you over his grave. 
I now obey him. 'My sons, if you will let my bones lie quiet in 
the grave, near the dust of your mother, depart not from my burial 
till, in the name of God and Christ, you promise to love one an- 
other as you used to do. Dear boys, receive my blessing.^ '' 

Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that needed not 
to be hidden^ — and when the brothers had released each other 
from a long and sobbing embrace, many went up to them, and, in 
a single word or two, expressed their joy at this perfect reconcile- 
ment. The brothers themselves walked away from the church- 
yard, arm in arm, with the minister to the manse. On the following 
Sabbath, they were seen sitting with their families in the same 
pew, and it was observed that they read together oif the same 
Bible when the minister gave out the text, and that they sang 
together, taking hold of the same psalm-book. The same psalm 
was sung (given out at their own request), of which one verse had 
been repeated at their father's grave; a larger sum than usual was 
on that Sabbath found in the plate for the poor, for Love and 
Charity are sisters. And ever after, both during the peace and 
the troubles of this life, the hearts of the brothers were as one, 
and in nothing were they divided. 



A SLEEPING CHILD. 

Art thou a thing of mortal birth, 
Whose happy home is on our earth? 
Does human blood with life imbue 
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue 
That stray along thy forehead fair, 
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair? 



624 WILSON. [victoria 

Oh ! can that light and airy breath 
Steal from a being doomed to death ; 
Those features to the grave be sent 
In sleep thus mutely eloquent? 
Or art thou, what thy form would seem, 
The phantom of a blessed dream? 

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see 
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! 
That light of dreaming soul appears 
To play from thoughts above thy years. 
Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring 
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring! 
And who can tell what visions high 
May bless an infant's sleeping eye! 
What brighter throne can brightness find 
To reign on than an infant's mind, 
Ere sin destroy or error dim 
The glory of the seraj^him'? 

Oh! vision fair! that I could be 

Again as young, as pure as thee! 

Vain wish ! the rainbow's radiant form 

May view, but cannot brave the storm: 

Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes 

That paint the bird of Paradise, 

And years, so fate hath ordered, roll 

Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. 

Fair was that face as break of dawn, 

When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn 

Like a thin veil that half-concealed 

The light of soul, and half-revealed. 

While thy hushed heart with visions wrought. 

Each trembling eyelash moved with thought, 

And things we dream, but ne'er can speak. 

Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek — 

Such summer-clouds as travel light. 

When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright; 

Till thou awok'st — then to thine eye 

Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy! 

And lovely is that heart of thine. 

Or sure these eyes could never shine 

With such a wild, yet bashful glee. 

Gay, half-o'ercome timidity! 



THE SHIPWRECK. 

But list! a low and moaning sound 
At distance heard, like a sjjirit's sonj 

And now it reigns above, around. 
As if it called the ship along. 



1837.] WILSON. 625 

The moon is sunk ; and a clouded gray 

Declares that her course is run, 
And like a god who brings the day, 

Up mounts the glorious sun. 
Soon as his hght has warmed the seas, 
From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze; 
And that is the spirit whose well-known song 
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 
No fears hath she; her giant form 
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 
Majestically calm would go 
'Mid the deep darkness white as snow ! 
But gently now the small waves glide 
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. 
So stately her bearing, so proud her array, 
Th6 main she will traverse for ever and aye. 
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast; — 
Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last. 
Five hundred souls in one instant of dread 

Are hurried o'er the deck ; 
And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, 

Her planks are torn asunder, 
And down come her masts with a reeling shock, 

And a hideous crash like thunder. 
Her sails are draggled in the brine, 

That gladdened late the skies. 
And her pendant, that kissed the fair moonshine, 

Down many a fathom lies. 
Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues 

Gleamed softly from below. 
And flung a warm and sunny flush 

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, 
To the coral-rocks are hurrying down. 
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 
Oh ! many a dream was in the ship 

An hour before her death; 
And sights of home with sighs disturbed 

The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
Instead of the murmur of the sea. 
The sailor heard the humming tree 

Alive through all its leaves. 
The hum of the spreading sycamore 
That grows before his cottage door. 

And the swallow's song in the eaves. 
His arms enclosed a blooming boy. 
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy 

To the dangers his father had passed; 
And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled, 
As she looked on the father of her child 

Returned to her heart at last. 



626 OPIE. [VICTORIA 

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, 
And the rush of waters is in his soul. 
Astounded, tlie reeling deck he paces, 
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces; 

The whole ship's crew are there ! 
Wailings around and overhead, 
Brave spirits stupefied or dead, 

And madness and despair. 
* » » * 

Now is the ocean's bosom bare. 

Unbroken as the floating air; 

The ship hath melted quite away, 

Like a struggling dream at break of day. 

No image meets my wandering eye 

But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky. 

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor*dull 

Bedims the waves so beautiful: 

While a low and melancholy moan 

Mourns for the glory that hath flown. 

From the ^'■Isle of Palms.'''' 



THE EVENING CLOUD A SONNET. 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, 

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; 
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on, 

O'er the still radiance of the lake below ; 

Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow. 
E'en in its very motion there was rest; 

While ev'ry breath of eve that chanced to blow 
Wafted the trav'Uer to the beauteous west. 

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is giv'n, 

And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
Right onward to the golden gates of heav'n, 
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies. 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 



AMELIA OPIE, 1771 

Mrs. Amelia Opie was a daughter of Dr. Alderson, an eminent physi- 
cian of Norwich, and was born in that city in 1771. At a very early period 
of her life, she evinced talents of a superior order, composing, while still a 
child, poems, descriptive pieces, and novels, though, with the exception of 



1837.] opiE. 627 

some poetical pieces in the " Monthly Magazine," none of them were pub- 
lished before her marriage, which took place in May, 1798, with Mr. John 
Opie, the celebrated painter. One of her first publications, " The Father 
and Daughter,"' a tale, appeared in 1801, which at once drew upon her the 
public attention. This was succeeded, in 1802, by an "Elegy to the Memory 
of the late Duke of Bedford," and a volume of other poems; and in 
1804 she gave to the world her tale of "Adeline Mowbry, or the Mother 
and Daughter." This was followed by "Simple Tales," in four volumes; 
"Dangers of Coquetry," and the "Warrior's Return, and other Poems." 
In 1807, she lost her husband, and wrote, soon after, that beautiful piece 
entitled "The Lament." 

Mrs. Opie's subsequent publications are, a novel entitled " Temper, or 
Domestic Scenes;" "Tales of Real Life;" "Valentine Eve;" "New 
Fables," in four volumes; and "The Black Man's Lament," in praise of 
the abolition of slavery, which appeared in 1826. But that which has made 
her name most known is her "Illustrations of Lying in all its Branches." 
It exposes to view much of the hypocrisy and heartlessness of what is 
called the "fashionable world," and of the various tricks and deceptions 
resorted to by men in business to "succeed," as they call it, in making 
money ; and by numerous interesting and illustrative stories, she sets forth, 
in their true light, the various lies of " Flattery," of " Fear," of " Con- 
venience," of " Interest," of "Benevolence," &c. It is a book which 
every one, but especially the young, might read with much profit. A short 
time before the publication of this work, Mrs. Opie joined the "Society 
of Friends," from a conviction that their doctrines, as illustrated in their 
practice, came nearer the pure standard of primitive Christianity than any 
other sect. 

Of Mrs. Opie's poetry, which exhibits pure taste and great depth of feel- 
ing, it has been well remarked that it "bears fresh evidence to the truth 
that woman's moral sentiments are generally in advance of man's. Those 
who doubt the fact will do well to remember how continually man's verse 
celebrates the infernal glories of war, the cruel excitements of the chase, 
or the selfish pleasures of bacchanalian enjoyment ; and, on the other 
hand, how unceasingly woman's verse exposes the wickedness and folly of 
such pursuits." 



THE ORPHAN BOY S TALE. 

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, 

And hear a helpless orphan's tale ! 
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake, 

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. 

' "An appalling piece of domestic tragedy, and perhaps the most deeply 
affecting of her writings." 

Edinburgh Review, vol. ii. p. 540. 



628 OPIE. [VICTORIA 

Yet I was once a mother's pride, 

And my brave father's hope and joy; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died, 

And I am now an orphan boy. 

Poor fooUsh child ! how pleased was I 

When news of Nelson's victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 

And see the lighted windows flame! 
To force me home my mother sought, 

She could not bear to see my joy; 
For with my father's life 'twas bought, 

And made me a poor orphan boy. 

The people's shouts were long and loud, 
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; 
" Rejoice ! rejoice !" still cried the crowd ; 
My mother answered with her tears. 
"Why are you crying thus," said I, 

" While others laugh and shout with joy?" 
She kissed me — and with such a sigh! 
She called me her poor orphan boy. 

"What is an orphan boy?" I cried, 

As in her face I looked, and smiled; 
My mother through her tears replied, 

" You'll know too soon, ill-fated child !" 
And now they've tolled my mother's knell, 

And I'm no more a parent's joy ; 
O lady, I have learned too well 

What 'tis to be an orphan boy ! 

Oh ! were I by your bounty fed ! 

Nay, gentle lady, do not chide — 
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread; 

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
Lady, you weep! ha! this to me? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? 
Look down, dear parents ! look, and see 

Your happy, happy orphan boy ! 



SONG.^ 

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades 

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find! 

Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids, 
To think on her thou leav'st behind. 

Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share, 
Must never be my happy lot; 

* Awriterinthe " Edinburg-h Review" styles this production of Mrs. Opie's 
one of the finest songs in our language. 



1837.] opiE. - 629 

But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, 
Forget me not! forget me not! 

Yet, should the thought of my distress 

Too painful to thy feelings be, 
Heed not the wish I now express. 

Nor ever deign to think on me : 
But oh ! if grief thy steps attend, 

If want, if sickness be thy lot. 
And thou require a soothing friend, ; 

Forget me not ! forget me not ! 



HYMN. 

There 's not a leaf within the bower ; 

There 's not a bird upon the tree ; 
There 's not a dew-drop on the flower, 

But bears the impress, Lord! of Thee. 

Thy hand the varied leaf design'd. 
And gave the bird its thrilling tone: 

Thy power the dew-drop's tints combined, 
Till like a diamond's blaze they shone. 

Yes: dew-drops, leaves, and birds, and all, 
The smallest, like the greatest things — 

The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball — 
Alike proclaim Thee King of Kings. 

But man alone to bounteous Heaven 

Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise: 

To favor'd man alone 'tis given 
To join the angelic choir in praise. 



WAR. 

Alas! to think one Christian soul 

At War's red shrine can worship still, 

Nor heed, though seas of carnage roll. 

Those awful words — " Thou shalt not kill !" 

Lord of all, and Prince of Peace, 
Speed, speed the long-predicted day, 

When War throughout the world shall cease, 
And Love shall hold eternal sway! 



54 



630 opiE. [victoria 



A LAMENT. 

There was an eye, whose partial glance 
Could ne'er my numerous failings see; 

There was an ear that heard untired 
When others spoke in praise of me. 

There was a heart time only taught 
With warmer love for me to burn ; 

A heart, whene'er from home I roved, 
Which fondly pined for my return. 

There was a lip which always breathed 
E'en short farewells in tones of sadness; 

There was a voice whose eager sound 

My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness. 

There was a mind whose vigorous power 
On mine its own effulgence threw. 

And called my humble talents forth, 
While thence its dearest joys it drew. 

There was a love which for my weal 
With anxious fears would overflow ; 

Which wept, which pray'd, for me, and sought 
From future ills to guard — But now ! — 

That eye is closed, and deaf that ear. 
That lip and voice are mute forever; 

And cold that heart of anxious love. 

Which death alone from mine could sever : 

And lost to me that ardent mind. 

Which loved ray various tasks to see; 

And oh! of all the praise I gained, 
His was the dearest far to me! 

Now I unloved, uncheer'd, alo7ie, 

Life's dreary wilderness must tread, 

Till He who heals the broken heart 
In mercy bids me join the dead. 

O Thou ! who, from thy throne on high, 
Canst heed the mourner's deep distress ; 

O Thou, who hear'st the widow's cry, 
Thou ! Father of the fatherless! 

Though now I am a faded leaf, 

That 's sever'd from its parent tree, 

And thrown upon a stormy tide. 

Life's awful tide that leads to Thee ! 

Still, gracious Lord! the voice of praise 
Shall spring spontaneous from my breast ; 

Since, though I tread a weary way, 
I trust that he I mourn is blest. 



1837.] OPIE. 631 



LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 

These are lies which are occasioned by a selfish dread of losing 
favor, and provoking displeasure by speaking the truth, rather 
than by real benevolence. Persons, calling themselves benevo- 
lent, withhold disagreeable truths, and utter agreeable falsehoods, 
from a wish to give pleasure, or to avoid giving pain. If you say 
that you are looking ill, they tell you that you are looking well. 
If you express a fear that you are growing corpulent, they say 
you are only just as fat as you ought to be. If you are hoarse in 
singing, and painfully conscious of it, they declare that they did 
not perceive it. And this, not from the desire of flattering you, 
or from the malignant one of wishing to render you ridiculous, by 
imposing on your credulity, but from the desire of making you 
pleased with yourself. In short, they lay it down as a rule that 
you must never scruple to sacrifice the truth, when the alternative 
is giving the slightest pain or mortification to any one. 

I shall leave my readers to decide whether the lies of fear or of 
benevolence preponderate in the following trifling, but character- 
istic, anecdote : — ^ 



A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 

Most mistresses of families have a family receipt-book, and are 
apt to believe that no receipts are so good as their own. 

With one of these notable ladies a young housekeeper went to 
pass a few days, both at her town and country-house. The hostess 
was skilled, not only in culinary lore, but in economy; and was 
in the habit of setting on her table, even when not alone, what- 
ever her taste or carefulness had led her to pot, pickle, or preserve, 
for occasional use. 

Before a meagre family dinner was quite over, a dish of potted 
SPRATS was set before the lady of the house, who, expatiating on 
their excellence, derived from a family receipt of a century old, 
pressed her still unsatisfied guest to partake of them. 

The dish was as good as much salt and little spice could make 
it; but it had one peculiarity; it had a strong flavor of garlic, 
and to garlic the poor guest had a great dislike. 

But she was a timid woman; and good breeding, and what she 
called benevolence, said, "Persevere and swallow,'^ though her 
palate said, No. "Is it not excellent?'^ said the hostess. "Very," 



632 OPIE. [VICTORIA 

faltered out the half-suffocated guest; and this was lie the first. 
"Did you ever eat anything like it before ?^^ "Never/' replied 
the other more firmly; for then she knew that she spoke the truth, 
and longing to add, "and I hope I never shall eat anything like 
it again." "I will give you the receipt/' said the lady kindly; 
"it will be of use to you as a young housekeeper; for it is eco- 
nomical, as well as good, and serves to make out, when we have 
a scrap-dinner. My servants often dine on it.'' "I wonder you 
can get any servants to live with you," thought the guest; "but 
I dare say you do not get any one to stay long!" "You do not, 
however, eat as if you liked it." " Oh yes, mcleed, I do, very 
much" (lie the second), she replied; "but you forget I have already 
esiten a good dinner:'' (lie the third. Alas! what had benevo- 
lence, so called, to answer for on this occasion !) 

" Well, I am delighted to find that you like my sprats," said 
the flattered hostess, while the cloth was removing; adding, 
"John! do not let those sprats be eaten in the kitchen!" an 
order which the guest heard with indescribable alarm. 

The next day they were to set off for the country-house, or 
cottage. When they were seated in the carriage, a large box was 
put in, and the guest fancied she smelt garlic; but 

" Where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise." 

She therefore asked no questions; but tried to enjoy the pre- 
sent, regardless of the future. At a certain distance they stopped 
to bait the horses. There the guest expected that they should 
get out, and take some refreshment; but her economical compa- 
nion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, observed, "I always sit in 
the carriage on these occasions. If one gets out, the people at 
the inn expect one to order a luncheon. I therefore take mine 
with me." So saying, John was summoned to drag the carriage 
out of sight of the inn windows. He then unpacked the box, 
took out of it knives and forks, plates, &c., and also a ^a?', which, 
impregnating the air with its effluvia, even before it was opened, 
disclosed to the alarmed guest that its contents were the dreaded 
sprats ! 

"Alas!" thought she, "Pandora's box was nothing to this! 
for in that Hope remained behind; but, at the bottom of this, is 
Despair !" In vain did the unhappy lady declare (lie the fourth) 
that " she had no appetite, and (lie the fifth) that she never ate in 
a morning." Her hostess would take no denial. However, she 
contrived to get a piece of sprat down, enveloped in bread; and 
the rest she threw out of the window, when her companion was 



1837.] opiE. 633 

looking another way — who, however, on turning round, exclaimed, 
" So, you have soon despatched the first ! let me give you another; 
do not refuse, because you think they are nearly finished; I assure 
you there are several left; and (delightful information !) we shall 
have a fresh supply to-morrow I" However, this time she was 
allowed to know when she had eaten enough; and the travellers 
proceeded to their journey's end. 

This day, the sprats did not appear at dinner; but, there being 
only a few left, they were reserved for supper! a meal, of which, 
this evening, on account of indisposition, the hostess did not par- 
take, and was therefore at liberty to attend entirely to the wants 
of her guest, who would fain have declined eating also, but it was 
impossible; she had just declared that she was quite well, and had 
often owned that she enjoyed a piece of supper after an earhy 
dinner. There was therefore no retreat from the maze in which 
her insincerity had involved her; and eat she must: but, when 
she again smelt on her plate the nauseous composition which, 
being near the bottom of the pot, was more disagreeable than 
ever, human patience and human infirmity could bear no more; 
the scarcely tasted morsel fell from her lips, and she rushed pre- 
cipitately into the open air, almost disposed to execrate, in her 
heart, potted sprats, the good breeding of her officious hostess, 
and even Benevolence itself. 



Some may observe, on reading this story, " What a foolish crea- 
ture the guest must have been ! and how improbable it is that 
any one should scruple to say, 'The dish is disagreeable;' and, 'I 
hate garlic !' '' But it is my conviction that the guest, on this oc- 
casion, was only a slightly-exaggerated specimen of the usual con- 
duct of those who have been taught to conduct themselves wholly 
by the artificial rules of civilized society, of which, generally 
speaking, falsehood is the basis. 

Benevolence is certainly one of the first of virtues; and its 
result is an amiable aversion to wound the feelings of others, even 
in trifles; therefore benevolence and politeness may be considered 
as the same thing; but Worldly Politeness is only a copj/ of 
benevolence. Benevolence is gold : this politeness a paper cur- 
rency, contrived as its substitute; as society, being aware that 
benevolence is as rare as it is precious, and that few are able to 
distinguisl), in anything, the false from the true, resolved, in lieu 
of benevolence, to receive Worldly Politeness, with all her train 
of deceitful welcomes, heartless regrets, false approbations, and 
treacherous smiles; those alluring seemings, which shine around 
her brow, and enable her to pass for Benevolence herself. 

54* 



634 MILMAN. [VICTORIA 

But how must the religious and the moral dislike the one, though 
they venerate the other I The kindness of the worldly Polite only 
lives its little hour in one's presence; hut that of the Benevolent 
retains its life and sweetness in one's absence. The worldly polite 
will often make the objects of their greatest flatteries and atten- 
tions, when present, the butt of their ridicule as soon as they see 
them no more; while the benevolent hold the characters and qua- 
lities of their associates in a sort of lioly keeping at all times, and 
are as indulgent to the absent as they were attentive to the present. 
The kindness of the worldly polite is the gay and pleasing flower 
worn in the bosom, as the ornament of a few hours; then sufi'ered 
to fade, and thrown by, when it is wanted no longer : but that of 
the really benevolent is like the fresh-springing evergreen, that 
blooms on through all times, and all seasons, unfading in beauty, 
and undiminished in sweetness. 



HENRY HART MILMAN, 1791 

Henry Hart Milman is the son of an eminent physician, Sir Francis 
Milman, and was born in the year 1791. He passed through his university 
education at Brazen-nose College, Oxford, with distinguished honors, and 
first appeared as an author in 1816, when his tragedy of " Fazio" was pub- 
lished. This was followed, in 1818, by " Samor, Lord of the Bright City, 
a Heroic Poem." To this succeeded four dramatic poems — " The Fall 
of Jerusalem," "The Martyr of Antioch," "Belshazzar," and "Anne 
Boleyn." To our prose literature he has contributed a well- written " His- 
tory of the Jews," in three volumes, and an edition of" Gibbon's Rome," 
with notes and corrections. 

Mr. Milman is distinguished as an elegant classical scholar, and held 
the office of Professor of Poetry in the university. His fine taste, chaste 
imagination, and varied attainments, are seen in all his dramatic works, 
the best of which are " The Fall of Jerusalem" and the " Martyr of Anti- 
och ;" while some of his lyrical pieces are remarkable for beauty, tender- 
ness, and sublimity. 



JERUSALEM BEFORE THE SIEGE. 



Titus. It must be— 

And yet it moves me, Romans! It confounds 
The counsel of my firm philosophy, 



1837.] MILMAN. 635 

That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er, 

And barren salt be sown on yon proud city. 

As on our olive-crowned hill we stand, 

Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters 

Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion, 

As through a valley sacred to sweet peace, 

How boldly doth it front us ! how majestically ! 

Like a luxurious vineyard, the hillside 

Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, 

Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer 

To the blue heavens. There bright and sumptuous palaces. 

With cool and verdant gardens interspersed ; 

There towers of war, that frown in massy strength ; 

While over all hangs the rich purple eve, 

As conscious of its being her last farewell 

Of light and glory to that fated city. 

And, as our clouds of battle, dust and smoke, 

Are melted into air, behold the temple 

In undisturbed and lone serenity, 

Finding itself a solemn sanctuary 

In the profound of heaven ! It stands before us 

A mount of snow, fretted with golden pinnacles ! 

The very sun, as though he worshipped there, 

Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs. 

And down the long and branching porticos, 

On every flowery-sculptured capital, 

Glitters the homage of his parting beams. 

By Hercules! the sight might almost win 

The offended majesty of Rome to mercy. 



HYMN OF THE CAPTIVE JEWS. 

God of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat 

The fiery winds of desolation flow : 
Father of vengeance! that with purple feet. 

Like a full winepress, tread'st the world below 
The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay. 
Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, 
Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way. 
Till thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe. 

God of the rainbow ! at whose gracious sign 

The billows of the proud their rage suppress; 
Father of mercies! at one word of thine 

An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness ! 
And fountains sparkle in the arid sands. 
And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands. 
And marble cities crown the laughing lands. 
And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. 

O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord ! 
The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate : 



636 MILMAN. [VICTORIA 

Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword, 

Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; 
And heaps her ivory palaces became ; 
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, 
Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame, 

For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate. 

O'er Judah's land thy rainbow. Lord, shall beam, 

And the sad city lift her crownless head ; 
And songs shall wake, and dancing Ibotsteps gleam, 

Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead. 
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, 
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers, 
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers, 

And angel-feet the glittering Sion tread. 

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand. 

And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves ; 

With fettered steps we left our pleasant land, 
Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. 

The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep, 

And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 

'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, 
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves. 

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy; 

Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children home ; 
He that went forth a tender yearling boy, 

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. 
And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear, 
And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare; 
And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer. 

Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed the irradiate dome. 



THE NATIVITY. 

Thou wast born of woman ; thou didst come, 
O Holiest! to this world of sin and gloom. 
Not in thy dread omnipotent array ; 

And not by thunders strew'd. 

Was thy tempestuous road; 
Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way. 
But thee, a soft and naked child. 
Thy mother, undefiled. 
In the rude manger laid to rest 
From off" her virgin breast. 

The heav'ns were not commanded to prepare 

A gorgeous canopy of golden air; 

Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high 

A single silent star 

Came wand'ring from afar, 



MILMAN. ^ 637 

Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky ; 

The Eastern Sages leading on, 

As at a kingly throne, 

To lay their gold and odors sweet 

Before thy infant feet. 

The earth and ocean were not hush'd to hear 
Bright harmony from ev'ry starry sphere; 
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song 

From all the cherub choirs, 

And seraph's burning lyres 
Pour'd through the host of heav'n tlie charmed clouds along : 
One angel troop the strain began, 
Of all the race of man. 
By simple shepherds heard alone, 
That soft Hosanna's tone. 

And when thou didst depart, no car of fiame 
To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came ; 
Nor visible angels mourn'd with drooping plumes : 

Nor didst thou moiint on high 

From fatal Calvary 
With all thine own redeem'd outbursting from their tombs. 
For thou didst bear away from earth 
But one of human birth, 
The dying felon by thy side, to be 
In Paradise with thee. 

Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance break, 
A little while the conscious earth did shake 
At that foul deed by her fierce children done; 

A few dim hours of day 

The world in darkness lay, 
Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun : 
While thou didst sleep beneath the tomb, 
Consenting to thy doom, 
Ere yet the white-robed Angel shone 
Upon the sealed stone. 

And when thou didst efVise, thou didst not stand 
With devastation in thy red right hand. 
Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew; 

But thou didst haste to meet 

Thy mother's coming feet. 
And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few : 
Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise 
Into thy native skies, 
Thy human form dissolved on high 
In its own radiancy. 



638 MILMAN. [VICTORIA 



THE BURIAL ANTHEM. 

Brother, thou art gone before us, 

And thy saintly soul is flown 
Where tears are wiped from every eye, 

And sorrow is unknown. 
From the burthen of the flesh, 

And from care and fear releas'd, 
Where the wicked cease from troubUng, 

And the weary are at rest. 

The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er. 

And borne the heavy load. 
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet 

To reach his blest abode; 
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus 

Upon his father's breast. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary are at rest. 

Sin can never taint thee now. 

Nor doubt thy faith assail. 
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ 

And the Holy Spirit fail : 
And there thou Tt sure to meet the good, 

Whom on earth thou lovedst best, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling. 

And the weary are at rest. 

" Earth to earth," and " dust to dust," 

The solemn priest hath said, 
So we lay the turf above thee now, 

And we seal thy narrow bed : 
But thy spirit, brother, soars away 

Among the faithful blest. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling. 

And the weary are at rest. 



SPEECH OF ANNE BOLEYN ON HER ENTRANCE INTO THE TOWER. 

Kingston (to the guard). — Advance your halberds. 

Queen. — Oh, sir ! pause — one look, 
One last long look, to satiate all my senses. 
Oh ! thou blue cloudless canopy, just tinged 
With the faint amber of the setting sun. 
Where one by one steal forth the modest stars 
To diadem the sky; thou noble river. 
Whose quiet ebb, not like my fortune, sinks 
With gentle downfall, and around the keels 
Of those thy myriad barks mak'st passing music ; 



1837.] MACAULAY. 639 

Oh ! thou great silent city, with thy spires 

And palaces, where I was once the greatest. 

The happiest — I, whose presence made a tumult 

In all your wondering streets and jocund marts; 

But most of all. thou cool and twilight air. 

That art a rapture to the breath! The slave. 

The beggar, the most base down-trodden outcast, 

The plague struck livid wretch, there 's none so vile, 

So abject, in your streets, that swarm with life — 

They may inhale the liquid joy Heaven breathes — 

They may behold the rosy evening sky — 

They may go rest their free limbs where they will ; 

But I — but I, to whom this summer world 

Was all bright sunshine; I, whose time was noted 

But by succession of delights. Oh ! Kingston, 

Thou dost remember ; thou wert then Lieutenant. 

'Tis now — how many years 1 — my memory wanders — 

Since I set forth from yon dark low-brow'd porch 

A bride — a monarch's bride — King Henry's bride ! 

Oh! the glad pomp that burned upon the waters — 

Oil ! the rich streams of music that kept time 

With oars as musical — the people's shouts. 

That called Heaven's blessings on my head, in sounds 

That might have drown'd the thunders. I 've more need 

Of blessing now, and not a voice would say it. 

Anne Boleyn, a Tragedy. 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

Certainly the most attractive, and one of the most, if not the most 
learned and eloquent of the essayists and critics of the nineteenth century, 
is Thomas Babington Macaulay. He is the son of Zachary Macaulay, who 
was the warm friend of Wilberforce, and his active co laborer in all his 
noble and untiring anti-slavery efforts. In 1818, he entered Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, where he took his degree in 1822. Here he gave proof 
of his great intellectual powers, obtaining a scholarship, and twice gaining 
the chancellor's medal for English verse. To crown his triumphs, he 
secured the second " Craven Scholarship," the highest distinction in clas- 
sics which the university cunfers. 

After leaving the university, he studied law at Lincoln's Inn, and was 
called to the bar in 1826. It was in this year thai his celebrated " Essay on 
Milton" appeared in the '■' Edinburgh Review," and henceforth he contri- 
buted to that journal, from time to time, papers of such learning, eloquence, 
and power, as to place him at the head of the very first rank of reviewers. 
His " Essays from the Edinburgh Review" have been collected and pub- 



640 MAOAULAY. [VICTORIA 

lished in three volumes, and have attained a popularity far greater than any 
other contributions to the periodical works of the day.^ 

Mr. Macaulay has been also distinguished in politics. He was elected 
a member for Colne, of the first reformed Parliament; was then made 
Secretary to the India Board; and, in 1834, was returned as member for 
Leeds. He resigned his seat the same year, on being appointed to the 
Supreme Council in Calcutta, under the East India Company's new charter. 
He returned to England in 1838, wdth a high reputation for having admin- 
istered his office in India with great justice and impartiality between the 
Europeans and the natives, as well as with great ability. The following 

* Of the five ablest contributors to the "Edinburgh Review," Mr. Stanton, 
in his " Reforms and Reformers of Great Britain," thus eloquently writes : — 

" Another class of writers have, during the present century, secured a firm 
footing within the pale of English literature — the Essayicts. Indeed, at one 
time, it looked as if the new-comers would succeed in excluding everj^body 
from it but themselves. At the head of this class stand the leading contribu- 
tors of the 'Edinburgh Review,' of whom Mr. Whipple has aptly said, 
< they made reviewing more respectable than authorship.' Jeffrey, for twenty- 
six years its editor, shed over its pages a strong, steady, and beautiful light, 
which tempered and irradiated the whole. His papers are a rare compend of 
literary criticism. Though sometimes more sophistical than philosophical, 
more brilliant than profound, and betraying prejudices when he should eluci- 
date principles, he was, upon the whole, not unworthy to be called ' The 
Prince of Critics.' For a quarter of a century his fiat was law in far the 
larger portion of the republic of English letters. Since he left the throne, 
many of his canons have been disputed, and some have been totally annulled. 
His contributions to the ' Review,' when published in a separate form, appear 
more homogeneous, more like a ' work,' than those of his brethren who have 
put theirs to press. Sj^dney Smith bore undisputed sway in the realm of wit 
and sarcasm. Papists, prisoners, poachers, paupers, schoolboys, and chimney- 
sweepers, owe him a monument each, for he was their very friend ; and if 
the Pennsylvanians repudiate, nonconformists might purchase a pension for 
his heirs with the lawn he tore from the shoulders of 'persecuting bishops.' 
Brougham glared from the pages of the ' Review' a baleful meteor, striking 
terror into dunces in Grub street and charlatans in Downing street, now scorch- 
ing a poetaster, and then roasting a prime minister, nor quenching his fires till 
they had penetrated and lit up the royal harem of Carlton House and Windsor 
Castle. Mackintosh made the 'Edinburgh' the medium for exhibiting to the 
public eye some of those philosophical disqu'.sitions, laden with the lore of 
the schoolmen, and embellished with the graces of the poets, which justified 
the assertion of Robert Hall that, if he had been less indolent and discursive, 
he might have attained the first place amongst modern metaphysicians. 
Macaulay has been one of the chief literary attractions of the 'Review' for 
the last eighteen years. His contributions are no more criticisms than are his 
descriptions of the state of England in 1685, or his sketch of the death-bed of 
Charles H. in his recent history. True, he places the title of a book at the 
head of a page. But his papers have men for their subjects rather than books, 
are essays rather than articles, panoramas of events instead of histories, living 
portraits of individuals rather than biographies of the dead. According to the 
old standards, they would have been more appropriate in the history of Eng- 
land than in the ' Edinburgh Review.' But the old standards have decayed. 
They are read and imitated in two hemispheres. The scholar admires their 
learning, the philosopher their penetration, the rhetorician their art, the poet 
their imagery, the million their politics. 

" And these five are the greatest of the ' Edinburgh Reviewers.' Freedom in 
every part of the world owes them a heavy debt of gratitude." 



1837.] MACAULAY. 641 

year he was elected member of Parliament for Edinburgh, and took a very 
leading position among the orators of that renowned assembly. Within a 
few years he was elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and 
his address on the occasion was greatly admired. 

As a poet (for Mr. Macaulay has courted the muse) he has rather 
failed ; not, indeed, from any intrinsic demerits in the " Lays of Ancient 
Rome" — for, had he written nothing else, he would be remembered for 
these — but because their lustre fades away before the exceeding brilliancy 
of his prose writings.^ Here he is unrivalled. His reading and erudition 
are immense. "In questions of classical learning and criticism — in Eng- 
lish poetry, philosophy, and history— in all the minutiae of biography and 
literary anecdote — in the principles and details of government — in the re- 
volutions of parties and opinions — in the progress of science and philoso- 
phy — in all these he seems equally versant and equally felicitous as a critic. 
Perhaps he is most striking and original in his historical articles, which 
present complete pictures of the times of which he treats, adorned with 
portraits of the principal actors, and copious illustrations of contemporary 
events and characters in other countries. His reviews of Hallam's Con- 
stitutional History, and the memoirs of Lord Clive, Warren Hastings, Sir 
Robert Walpole, Sir William Temple, Sir Walter Raleigh, &c., contain a 
series of brilliant and copious historical retrospects, unequalled in our lite- 
rature. His eloquent papers on Lord Bacon, Sir Thomas Browne, Horace 
Walpole's Letters, Boswell's Johnson, Addison's Memoirs, and other phi- 
losophical and literary subjects, are also of first-rate excellence. What- 
ever topic he takes up, he fairly exhausts — nothing is left to the imagination, 
and the most ample curiosity is gratified." 

Mr. Macaulay's last pul)licaiion is his "History of England," than 
which no book of the present century has been more popular. It is what 
a history ought to be — a history of the people. It is written in a style 
of great clearness, force, and eloquence, and the scenes he describes, he 
places, by the vividness of his pencil, direcily before your eyes. You see 
them and feel them too. The third chapter of this great work, wherein he 
describes the advance of the people, for the last three centuries, from igno- 
rance to knowledge, from barbarism to civilization, from serfdom to 
freedom, should be read by all, especially by those elderly gentlemen whose 
chief delight is to praise the " good old times." 

' Nerissa. — When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. 
Portia. — So doth the greater g'lory dim the less : 
A substitute shines brightly as a king, 
Until a king be by ; and then his state 
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 
Into the main of waters. 

Merchant of Venice, Act 5, Scene 1. 

55 



642 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 



MILTON. 

We venture to say, paradoxical as the remark may appear, that 
no poet lias ever had to struggle with more unfavorable circum- 
stances than Milton. He doubted, as be has himself owned, 
whether he had not been born '' an age too late." For this notion 
Johnson has thought fit to make him the butt of his clumsy ridi- 
cule. The poet, we believe, understood the nature of his art better 
than the critic. He knew that his poetical genius derived no ad- 
vantage from the civilization which surrounded him, or from the 
learning which he had acquired : and he looked back with some- 
thing like regret to the ruder age of simple words and vivid im- 
pressions. 

We think that, as civilization advances, poetry almost neces- 
sarily declines. Therefore, though we admire those great works 
of imagination which have appeared in dark ages, we do not 
admire them the more because they have appeared in dark ages. 
On the contrary, we hold that the most wonderful and splendid 
proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civilized age. We 
cannot understand why those who believe in that most orthodox 
article of literary faith, that the earliest poets are generally the 
best, should wonder at the rule as if it were the exception. Surely 
the uniformity of the phenomenon indicates a corresponding uni- 
formity in the cause. * * * 

He who, in an enlightened and literary society, aspires to be a 
great poet, must first become a little child. He must take to 
pieces the whole web of his mind. He must unlearn much of that 
knowledge which has, perhaps, constituted hitherto his chief title 
of superiority. His very talents will be a hinderance to him. His 
difl&culties will be proportioned to his proficiency in the pursuits 
which are fashionable among his contemporaries ; and that profi- 
ciency will in general be proportioned to the vigor and activity of 
his mind. And it is well, if, after all his sacrifices and exertions, 
his works do not resemble a lisping man, or a modern ruin. We 
have seen, in our own time, great talents, intense labor, and long 
meditation, employed in this struggle against the spirit of the age, 
and employed, we will not say absolutely in vain, but with dubi- 
ous success and feeble applause. 

If these reasonings be just, no poet has ever triumphed over 
greater difficulties than Milton. He received a learned education. 
He was a profound and elegant classical scholar : he had studied 
all the mysteries of Rabbinical literature : he was intimately ac- 



1837.] MACAULAY. 643 

quainted with. every language of modern Europe, from whicli 
either pleasure or information was then to be derived. He was, 
perhaps, the only great poet of later times who has been distin- 
guished by the excellence of his Latin verse. "^ ^^ 

It is not our intention to attempt anything like a complete ex- 
amination of the poetry of Milton. The public has long been 
agreed as to the merit of the most remarkable passages, the in- 
comparable harmony of the numbers, and the excellence of that 
style which no rival has been able to equal, and no parodist to 
degrade ; which displays in their highest perfection the idiomatic 
powers of the English tongue, and to which every ancient and 
every modern language has contributed something of grace, of 
energy, or of music. In- the vast jBeld of criticism in which we 
are entering, innumerable reapers have already put their sickles. 
Yet the harvest is so abundant, that the negligent search of a 
straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. 

The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the 
extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts 
on the reader. Its effect is produced, not so much by what it ex- 
presses, as by what it suggests; not so much by the ideas which 
it directly conveys, as by other ideas which are connected with 
them. He electrifies the mind through conductors. The most 
unimaginative man must understand the '' Iliad." Homer gives 
him no choice, and requires from him no exertion ] but takes the 
whole upon himself, and sets his images in so clear a light that it 
is impossible to be blind to them. The works of Milton cannot 
be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of the reader co- 
operate with that of the writer. He does not paint a finished 
picture, or play for a mere passive listener. He sketches, and 
leaves others to fill up the outline. He strikes tbe key-note, and 
expects his hearer to make out the melody. 

We often hear of the magical influence of poetry. The expres- 
sion in general means nothing ; but, applied to the writings of 
Milton, it is most appropriate. His poetry acts like an incanta- 
tion. Its merit lies less in its obvious meaning than in its occult 
power. There would seem, at first sight, to be no more in his 
words than in other words. But they are words of enchantment; 
no sooner are they pronounced, than the past is present, and the 
distant near. New forms of beauty start at once into existence, 
and all the burial-places of the memory give up their dead. 
Change the structure of the sentence, substitute one synonyme 
for another, and the whole effect is destroyed. The spell loses its 
power: and he who should then hope to conjure with it, would 
find himself as much mistaken as Cassim in the Arabian tale, 



644 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 

wben he stood crying, " Open Wheat/' " Open Barley/' to the 
door which obeyed no sound but " Open Sesame !" The misera- 
ble failure of Dryden, in his attempt to rewrite some parts of the 
'^ Paradise Lost/' is a remarkable instance of this. * * 

The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by loftiness 
of thought. He had survived his health and his sight, the comforts 
of his home and the prosperity of his party. Of the great men, by 
whom he had been distinguished at his entrance into life, some had 
been taken away from the evil to come ; some had carried into foreign 
climates their unconquerable hatred of oppression ; some were 
pining in dungeons ; and some had poured forth their blood on 
scaffolds. That hateful proscription, facetiously termed the Act 
of Indemnity and Oblivion, had set a. mark on the poor, blind, 
deserted poet, and held him up by name to the hatred of a pro- 
fligate court and an inconstant people ! Venal and licentious 
scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the thoughts of a 
pander in the style of a bellman, were now the favorite writers of 
the sovereign and the public. It was a loathsome herd — which 
could be compared to nothing so fitly as to the rabble of Comus, 
grotesque monsters, half bestial, half human, dropping with wine, 
bloated with gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst 
these his Muse was placed, like the chaste lady of the Masque, 
lofty, spotless, and serene — to be chatted at, and pointed at, and 
grinned at by the whole rabble of Satyrs and Goblins. If ever 
despondency and asperity could be excused in any man, it might 
have been excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind over- 
came every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age, nor 
penury, nor domestic afflictions, nor political disappointments, nor 
abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his 
sedate and majestic patience. His spirits do not seem to have 
been high, but they were singularly equable. His temper was 
serious, perhaps stern ; but it was a temper which no suffer- 
ings could render sullen or fretful. Such it was when, on the 
eve of great events, he returned from his travels, in the prime of 
health and manly beauty, loaded with literary distinctions, and 
glowing with patriotic hopes — such it continued to be when, 
after having experienced every calamity which is incident to our 
nature, old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired to his hovel 
to die J * * * 

His public conduct was such as was to be expected from a man 
of a spirit so high, and an intellect so powerful. He lived at one 
of the most memorable eras in the history of mankind ; at the 
very crisis of the great conflict between Oromasdes and Arimanes — 
liberty and despotism, reason and prejudice. That great battle 



1837.] MACAULAY. 645 

was fought for no single generation, for no single land. The des- 
tinies of the human race were staked on the same cast with the 
freedom of the English people. Then were first proclaimed those 
mighty principles which have since worked their way into tlie 
depths of the American forests ; which have roused Greece from 
the slavery and degradation of two thousand years ; and which, 
from one end of Europe to the other, have kindled an unquench- 
able fire in the hearts of the oppressed, and loosed the knees of 
the oppressors with a strange and unwonted fear ! * * 

We must conclude. And yet we can scarcely tear ourselves 
away from the subject. The days immediately following the pub- 
lication of this relic of Milton^ appear to be peculiarly set apart 
and consecrated to his memory. And we shall scarcely be cen- 
sured if, on this his festival, we be found lingering near his shrine, 
how worthless soever may be the ofi"ering which we bring to it. 
While this book lies on our table, we seem to be contemporaries 
of the great poet. We are transported a hundred and fifty years 
back. We can almost fancy that we are visiting him in his small 
lodging ; that we see him sitting at the old organ beneath the 
faded green hangings ; that we can catch the quick twinkle of 
his eyes rolling in vain to find the day ; that we are reading in 
the lines of his noble countenance the proud and mournful history 
of his glory and his affliction ! We image to ourselves the breath- 
less silence in which we should listen to his slightest word ; the 
passionate veneration with which we should kneel to kiss his hand, 
and weep upon it; the earnestness with which we should endeavor 
to console him, if, indeed, such a spirit could need consolation, for 
the neglect of an age unworthy of his talents and his virtues ; the 
eagerness with which we should contest with his daughters, or 
with his Quaker friend, Elwood, the privilege of reading Homer 
to him, or of taking down the immortal accents which flowed from 
his lips. 

These are, perhaps, foolish feelings. Yet we cannot be ashamed 
of them ; nor shall we be sorry if what we have written shall, in 
any degree, excite them in other minds. We are not much in 
the habit of idolizing either the living or the dead. And we 
think that there is no more certain indication of a weak and ill- 
regulated intellect than that propensity which, for want of a better 
name, we will venture to christen BosiceUism. But there are a 
few characters which have stood the closest scrutiny and the 
severest tests; which have been tried in the furnace, and have 

* "ATreatit^e on Christian Doctrine, compiled from the Holy Scriptures 
alone." 

55* 



646 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 

proved pure ; which have been weighed in the balance, and have 
not been found wanting ; which have been declared sterling bj the 
general consent of mankind ; and which are visibly stamped with 
the image and superscription of the Most High. These great 
men we trust that we know how to prize ; and of these was Milton. 
The sight of his books, the sound of his name, are refreshing to 
us. His tk)ughts resemble those celestial fruits and flowers 
which the Virgin Martyr of Massinger sent down from the gar- 
dens of Paradise to the earth, distinguished from the productions 
of other soils, not only by their superior bloom and sweetness, 
but by their miraculous efficacy to invigorate and to heal. They 
are powerful, not only to delight, but to elevate and purify. 
Nor do we envy the man who can study either the life or 
the writings of the great Poet and Patriot without aspiring 
to emulate, not indeed the sublime works with which his genius 
has enriched our literature, but the zeal with which he labored 
for the public good, the fortitude with which he endured every 
private calamity, the lofty disdain with which he looked down on 
temptation and dangers, the deadly hatred which he bore to bigots 
and tyrants, and the faith which he so sternly kept with his coun- 
try and with his fame. 



THE PURITANS. 

We would first speak of the Puritans, the most remarkable 
body of men, perhaps, which the world has ever produced. The 
odious and ridiculous parts of their character lie on the surface. 
He that runs may read them ; nor have there been wanting at- 
tentive and malicious observers to point them out. For many 
years after the Restoration, they were +be theme of unmeasured 
invective and derision. They were exposed to the utmost licen- 
tiousness of the press and of the stage, at the time when the press 
and the stage were most licentious. They were not men of 
letters; they were, as a body, unpopular; they could not defend 
themselves ; and the public would not take them under its pro- 
tection. They were, therefore, abandoned, without reserve, to 
the tender mercies of the satirists and dramatists. The ostenta- 
tious simplicity of their dress, their sour aspect, their nasal twang, 
their stiff posture, their long graces, their Hebrew names, the 
Scriptural phrases which they introduced on every occasion, their 
contempt of human learning, their detestation of polite amuse- 
ments, were indeed fair game for the laughers. But it is not from 
the laughers alone that the philosophy of history is to be learnt. 



1837.] MACAULAY. 647 

And he wlio approaclies this subject should carefully guard against 
the influence of that potent ridicule which has already misled so 
many excellent writers. 

Those who roused the people to resistance — who directed their 
measures through a long series of eventful years — who formed, 
out of the most unpromising materials, the finest army that 
Europe had ever seen — who trampled down King, Church, and 
Aristocracy— who, in the short intervals of domestic sedition and 
rebellion, made the name of England terrible to every nation on 
the face of the earth, were no vulgar fanatics. Most of their ab- 
surdities were mere external badges, like the signs of freemasonry, 
or the dresses of friars. We regret that these badges were not 
more attractive. We regret that a body, to whose courage and 
talents mankind has owed inestimable obligations, had not the 
lofty elegance which distinguished some of the adherents of 
Charles L, or the easy good breeding for which the court^ of 
Charles 11. was celebrated. But, if we must make our choice, 
we shall, like Bassanio in the play, turn from the specious caskets 
which contain only the Death's head and the Fool's head, and fix 
our choice on the plain leaden chest which conceals the treasure. 
The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar 
character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and ex- 
ternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general 
terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every 
event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing 
was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To 
know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great 
end of existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious 
homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the 
soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through 
an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable 
brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence origi- 
nated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The diiference 
betv/een the greatest and meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, 
when compared with the boundless interval which separated the 
whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly 
fixed. They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, 
confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and 
all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with 
the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in 
the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the regis- 
ters of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in the 
Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid 
train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge over 



648 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 

them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands : their 
diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away ! On the 
rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down 
with contempt : for they esteemed themselves rich in a more pre- 
cious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language — nobles 
by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition 
of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to 
whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged — on 
whose slightest actions the spirits of light and .darkness looked 
with anxious interest — who had been destined, before heaven and 
earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when 
heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which short- 
sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained 
on his account. For his sake, empires had risen, and flourished, 
and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his 
will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the prophet. 
He had been rescued by no common deliverer from the grasp of 
no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar 
agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that 
the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that 
the dead had arisen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufi"er- 
ings of her expiring God ! 



bunyan's pilgrim's progress. 

The characteristic peculiarity of the ^'Pilgrim's Progress" is, 
that it is the only work of its kind which possesses a strong human 
interest. Other allegories only amuse the fancy. The allegory 
of Bunyan has been read by many thousands with tears. There 
are some good allegories in Johnson's .vorks, and some of still 
higher merit by Addison. In these performances there is, per- 
haps, as much wit and ingenuity as in the "Pilgrim's Progress." 
But the pleasure which is produced by the Vision of Mirza, or the 
Vision of Theodore, the genealogy of Wit, or the contest between 
Rest and Labor, is exactly similar to the pleasure which we de- 
rive from one of Cowley's Odes, or from a Canto of Hudibras. It 
is a pleasure which belongs wholly to the understanding, and in 
which the feelings have no part whatever. Nay, even Spenser 
himself, though assuredly one of the greatest poets that ever lived, 
could not succeed in the attempt to make allegory interesting. It 
was in vain that he lavished the riches of his mind on the " House 
of Pride," and the " House of Temperance." One unpardonable 
fault, the fault of tediousness, pervades the whole of the *' Faery 



1837.] MACAULAY. 649 

Queen/' We become sick of Cardinal Virtues and Deadly Sins, 
and long for the society of plain men and women. Of the per- 
sons who read the first Canto, not one in ten reaches the end of 
the First Book, and not one in a hundred perseveres to the end 
of the poem. Very few and very weary are those who are in at 
the death of the Blatant Beast. If the last six books, which are 
said to have been destroyed in Ireland, had been preserved, we 
doubt whether any heart less stout than that of a commentator 
would have held out to the end. 

It is not so with the " Pilgrim's Progress." That wonderful 
book, while it obtains admiration from the m.ost fastidious critics, 
is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Doctor John- 
son, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, 
to read books through, made an exception in favor of the " Pil- 
grim's Progress. '^ That work, he said, was one of the two or 
three works which he wished longer. It was by no common merit 
that the illiterate sectary extracted praise like this from the 
most pedantic of critics, and the most bigoted of Tories. In the 
wildest parts of Scotland, the '' Pilgrim's Progress" is the delight 
of the peasantry. In every nursery, the " Pilgrim's Progress" is 
a greater favorite than '' Jtick the Giant-killer." Every reader 
knows the straight and narrow path as well as he knows a road 
in which he has gone backward and forward a hundred times. 
This is the highest miracle of genius — that things which are not 
should be as though they were; that the imaginations of one mind 
should become the personal recollections of another. And this 
miracle the tinker has wrought. There is no ascent, no declivity, 
no resting-place, no turnstile, with which we are not perfectly 
acquainted. The wicket gate, and the desolate swamp which 
separates it from the City of Destruction; the long line of road, 
as straight as a rule can make it; the Interpreter's house, and all 
its fair shows ; the prisoner in the iron cage ; the palace, at the 
doors of which armed men kept guard, and on the battlements of 
which walked persons clothed all in gold ; the cross and the 
sepulchre ; the steep hill and the pleasant arbor ; the stately front 
of the House Beautiful by the wayside; the low green valley of 
Humiliation, rich with grass and covered with flocks, are all as 
well known to us as the sights of our own street. Then we come 
to the narrow place where ApoUyon strode right across the whole 
breadth of the way, to stop the journey of Christian, and where, 
afterwards, the pillar was set up to testify how bravely the pilgrim 
had fought the good fight. As we advance, the valley becomes 
deeper and deeper. The shade of the precipices on both sides 
falls blacker and blacker. The clouds gather overhead. Doleful 



650 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 

voices, the clanking of chains, and the rushing of many feet to 
and fro, are heard through the darkness. The way, hardly dis- 
cernible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of the burning pit, 
whi'Dh sends forth its flames, its noisome smoke, and its hideous 
shapes, to terrify the adventurer. Thence he goes on, amidst the 
snares and pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of those who have 
perished lying in the ditch by his side. At the end of the long 
dark valley, he passes the dens in which the old giants dwelt, 
amidst the bones and ashes of those whom they had slain. * * 

The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invalua- 
ble as a study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide com- 
mand over the English language. The vocabulary is the voca- 
bulary of the common people. There is not an expression, if we 
except a few technical terms of theology, which would puzzle the 
rudest peasant. We have observed several pages which do not 
contain a single word of more than two syllables. Yet no writer 
has said more exactly what he meant to say. For magnificence, 
for pathos, for vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for 
every purpose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely 
dialect, the dialect of plain workingmen, was perfectly sufficient. 
There is no book in our literature on which we could so readily 
stake the fame of the old unpolluted English language ; no book 
which shows so well how rich that language is in its own proper 
wealth, and how little it has been improved by all that it has bor- 
rowed. 

Cowper said, forty or fifty years ago, that he dared not name 
John Bunyan in his verse, for fear of moving a sneer. To our 
refined forefathers, we suppose, Lord Roscommon's ^' Essay on 
Translated Verse,'' and the Duke of Buckinghamshire's " Essay 
on Poetry,^' appeared to be compositions infinitely superior to the 
allegory of the preaching tinker. We live in better times ; and 
we are not afraid to say that, though there were many clever men 
in England during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there 
were only two great creative minds. One of those minds pro- 
duced the "Paradise Lost;" the other the "Pilgrim's Progress.'^ 



CHARACTER OF BYRON. 

Never had any writer so vast a command of the whole eloquence 
of scorn, misanthropy, and despair. That Marah was never dry. 
No art could sweeten, no draughts could exhaust, its perennial 
waters of bitterness. Never was there such variety in mono- 



1837.] MAOAULAY. 651 

tony as that of Byron. From maniac laughter to piercing lamen- 
tation, there was not a single note of human anguish of which he 
was not master. Year after year, and month after month, he con- 
tinued to repeat that to be wretched is the destiny of all ; that to 
be eminently wretched is the destiny of the eminent ; that all the 
desires by which we are cursed lead alike to misery ; if they are 
not gratified, to the misery of disappointment; if they are gratified^ 
to the misery of satiety. His principal heroes are men who have 
arrived by different roads at the same goal of despair, who are 
sick of life, who are at war with society, who are supported in 
their anguish only by an unconquerable pride, resembling that of 
Prometheus on the rock, or of Satan in the burning marl ; who 
can master their agonies by the force of their will, and who, to 
the last, defy the whole power of earth and heaven. He always 
described himself as a man of the same kind with his favorite 
creations, as a man whose heart had been withered, whose capa- 
city for happiness was gone, and could not be restored ; but whose 
invincible spirit dared the worst that could befall him here or 
hereafter. 

How much of this morbid feeling sprung from an original dis- 
ease of mind, how much from real misfortune, how much from 
the nervousness of dissipation, how much of it was fanciful, how 
much of it was merely affected, it is impossible for us, and would 
probably have been impossible for the most intimate friends of 
Lord Byron, to decide. Whether there ever existed, or can ever 
exist, a person answering to the description which he gave of him- 
self, may be doubted ; but that he was not such a person is 
beyond all doubt. It is ridiculous to imagine that a man whose 
mind was really imbued with scorn of his fellow-creatures, would 
have published three or four books every year in order to tell 
them so; or that a man, who could say with truth that he neither 
sought sympathy nor needed it, would have admitted all Europe 
to hear his farewell to his wife, and his blessings on his child. 
In the second canto of " Childe Harold/' he tells us that he is 
insensible to fame and obloquy : — 

" 111 may such contest now the spirit move, 
Which heeds nor keen reproof nor partial praise." 

Yet we know, on the best evidence, that a day or two before he 
published these lines, he was greatly, indeed childishly, elated by 
the compliments paid to his maiden speech in the House of Lords. 
We are far, however, from thinking that his sadness was alto- 
gether feigned. He was naturally a man of great sensibility; he 
had been ill-educated ; his feelings had been early exposed to sharp 



652 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 

trials ; he bad been crossed in bis boyish love ; he had been mor- 
tified by the failure of his first literary efforts ; he was straitened 
in pecuniary circumstances ; he was unfortunate in his domestic 
relations; the public treated him with cruel injustice; his health 
and spirits suffered from his dissipated habits of life ; he was, on 
the whole, an unhappy man. He early discovered that, by parad- 
ing his unhappiness before the multitude, he excited an unrivalled 
interest. The world gave him every encouragement to talk about 
his mental sufferings. The effect which his first confessions pro- 
duced induced him to affect much that he did not feel ; and the 
affectation probably reacted on his feelings. How far the charac- 
ter in which he exhibited himself was genuine, and how far thea- 
trical, would probably have puzzled himself to say. 

There can be no doubt that this remarkable man owed the vast 
influence which he exercised over his contemporaries, at least as 
ranch to his gloomy egotism as to the real power of his poetry. We 
never could very clearly understand how it is that egotism, so un- 
popular in conversation, should be so popular in writing ; or how 
it is that men who affect in their compositions qualities and feel- 
ings which they have not, impose so much more easily on their 
contemporaries than on posterity. The interest which the loves 
of Petrarch excited in his own time, and the pitying fondness 
with which half Europe looked upon Rousseau, are well known. 
To readers of our time, the love of Petrarch seems to have been 
love of that kind which breaks no hearts ; and the sufferings of 
Rousseau to have deserved laughter rather than pity — to have 
been partly counterfeited, and partly the consequences of his own 
perverseness and vanity. 

What our grandchildren may think of the character of Lord 
Byron, as exhibited in his poetry, we will not pretend to guess. 
It is certain that the interest which ha excited during his life is 
without a parallel in literary history. The feeling with which 
young readers of poetry regarded him can be conceived only by 
those who have experienced it. To people who are unacquainted 
with the real calamity, " nothing is so dainty sweet as lovely 
melancholy.^^ This faint image of sorrow has in all ages been con- 
sidered by young gentlemen as an agreeable excitement. Old 
gentlemen and middle-aged gentlemen have so many real causes 
of sadness, that they are rarely inclined "to be as sad as night 
only for wantonness." Indeed they want the power almost as 
much as the inclination. We know very few persons engaged in 
active life, who, even if they were to procure stools to be melan- 
choly upon, and were to sit down with all the premeditation of 



1837.] MACAULAY. 653 

Master Stephen, would be able to enjoy much of what somebody 
calls the *' ecstasy of woe." 

Among that large class of young persons whose reading is 
almost entirely confined to works of imagination, the popularity 
of Lord Byron was unbounded. They bought pictures of him^ 
they treasured up the smallest relics of him ; they learned his 
poems by heart, and did their best to write like him, and to look 
like him. Many of them practised at the glass, in the hope of 
catching the curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the brow, 
which appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded their 
neckcloths in imitation of their great leader. For some years, the 
Minerva press sent forth no novel without a mysterious, unhappy, 
Lara-like peer. The number of hopeful undergraduates and medi- 
cal students who became things of dark imaginings, on whom the 
freshness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose passions had 
consumed themselves to dust, and to whom the relief of tears was 
denied, passes all calculation. This was not the worst. There 
was created, in the minds of many of these enthusiasts, a perni- 
cious and absurd association between intellectual power and moral 
depravity. From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system 
of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness : a 
system in which the two great commandments were, to hate your 
neighbor, and to love your neighbor's wife. 

This affectation has passed away ] and a few more years will 
destroy whatever yet remains of that magical potency which once 
belonged to the name of Byron. To us he is still a man, young, 
noble, and unhappy. To our children he will be merely a writer; 
and their impartial judgment will appoint his place among writers, 
without regard to his rank or to his private history. That his 
poetry will undergo a severe sifting ; that much of what has been 
admired by his contemporaries will be rejected as worthless, we 
have little doubt. But we have as little doubt, that, after the 
closest scrutiny, there will still remain much that can only perish 
with the English language. 



A DAY IN ANCIENT ATHENS. 

Books were the least part of the education of an Athenian 
citizen. Let us for a moment transport ourselves in thought to 
that glorious city. Let us imagine that we are entering its gates 
in the time of its power and glory. A crowd is assembled round 
a portico. All are gazing with delight at the entablature, for 
56 



654 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 

Phidias is putting up the frieze. We turn into another street ; 
a rhapsodist is reciting there ; men, women, children, are throng- 
ing round him ; the tears are running down their cheeks ; their 
eyes are fixed ; their very breath is still ; for he is telling how 
Priam fell at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those hands — the 
terrible, the murderous — which had slain so many of his sons. 
We enter the public place ; there is a ring of youths, all leaning 
forward with sparkling eyes, and gestures of expectation. Socra- 
tes is pitted against the famous atheist from Ionia, and has just 
brought him to a contradiction in terms. But we are interrupted. 
The herald is crying, "Room for the Prytanes !" The general 
assembly is to meet. The people are swarming in on every side. 
Proclamation is made: "Who wishes to speak?" There is a 
shout and a clapping of hands; Pericles is mounting the stand. 
Then for a play of Sophocles, and away to sup with Aspasia. 



THE CROWNING OF PETRARCH. 

Among the great men to whom we owe the resuscitation of 
science, he deserves the foremost place ; and his enthusiastic 
attachment to this great cause constitutes his most just and 
splendid title to the gratitude of posterity. He was the votary 
of literature. He loved it with a perfect love. He worshipped it 
with an almost fanatical devotion. He was the missionary who 
proclaimed its discoveries to distant countries — the pilgrim who 
travelled far and wide to collect its relics — the hermit who retired 
to seclusion to meditate on its beauties — the champion who fought 
its battles — the conqueror who, in more than a metaphorical sense, 
led barbarism and ignorance in triumph, and received in the capi- 
tol the laurel which his magnificent victory had earned. 

Nothing can be conceived more affecting or noble than that 
ceremony. The superb palaces and porticos, by which had rolled 
the ivory chariots of Marius and Caasar, had long mouldered into 
dust. The laurelled fasces, the golden eagles, the shouting 
legions, the captives, and the pictured cities were indeed wanting 
to his victorious procession. The sceptre had passed away from 
Rome. But she still retained the mightier influence of an intel- 
lectual empire, and was now to confer the prouder reward of an 
intellectual triumph. To the man who had extended the dominion 
of her ancient language — who had erected the trophies of philoso- 
phy and imagination in the haunts of ignorance and ferocity — 
whose captives were the hearts of admiring nations enchained by 



1837.] MACAULAY. 655 

the influence . of his song — whose spoils were the treasures of 
ancient genius rescued from obscurity and decay — the Eternal 
City oflfered the just and glorious tribute of her gratitude. Amidst 
the ruined monuments of ancient, and the infant erections of 
modern art, he who had restored the broken link between the 
two ages of human civilization was crowned with the wreath 
which he had deserved from the moderns who owed to him their 
refinement' — from the ancients who owed to him their fame. 
Never was a coronation so august witnessed by Westminster or 
Rheims. 



BOOKS AND EDUCATION IN CHARLES SECOND S REIGN. 

Literature which could be carried by the post bag then formed 
the greater part of the intellectual nutriment ruminated by the 
country divines and country justices. The difficulty and expense 
of conveying large packets from place to place was so great, that 
an extensive work was longer in making its way from Paternoster 
Row to Devonshire or Lancashire, than it now is in reaching 
Kentucky. How scantily a rural parsonage was then furnished, 
even with books the most necessary to a theologian, has already 
been remarked. The houses of the gentry were not more plenti- 
fully supplied. Few knights of the shire had libraries so good as 
may now perpetually be found in a servant's hall, or in the back 
parlor of a small shopkeeper. An esquire passed among his neigh- 
bors for a great scholar, if Hudibras and Baker's Chronicle, Tarl- 
ton's Jests and the Seven Champions of Christendom, lay in his 
hall window among the fishing-rods and fowling-pieces. No cir- 
culating library, no book society, then existed even in the capital; 
but in the capital those students who could not afford to purchase 
largely had a resource. The shops of the great booksellers, near 
Saint Paul's Churchyard, were crowded every day and all day 
long with readers; and a known customer was often permitted to 
carry a volume home. In the country there was no such accom- 
modation ; and every man was under the necessity of buying 
whatever he wished to read.'' 

As to the lady of the manor and her daughters, their literary 
stores generally consisted of a prayer-book and a receipt-book. 

* Cotton seems, from his Angler, to have found room for his whole library 
in his hall window; and Cotton was a man of letters. Even when Franklin 
first visited London in 1724, circulating libraries were unknown there. The 
crowd at the booksellers' shops in Little Britain is mentioned by Roger 
North in his Life of his brother John. 



656 MACAULAY. [VICTORIA 

But in truth they lost little by living in rural seclusion. For, 
even in the highest ranks, and in those situations which afforded 
the greatest facilities for mental improvement, the English women 
of that generation were decidedly worse educated than they have 
been at any other time since the revival of learning. At an 
earlier period, they had studied the masterpieces of ancient genius. 
In the present day, they seldom bestow much attention on the 
dead languages ; but they are familiar with the tongue of Pascal 
and Moliere, with the tongue of Dante and Tasso, with the tongue 
of Goethe and Schiller ; nor is there any purer or more graceful 
English than that which accomplished women now speak and 
write. But, during the latter part of the seventeenth century, 
the culture of the female mind seems to have been almost entirely 
neglected. If a damsel had the least smattering of literature, she 
was regarded as a prodigy. Ladies highly born, highly bred, and 
naturally ciuick-witted, were unable to write a line in their mother 
tongue without solecisms and faults of spelling such as a charity 
girl would now be ashamed to commit.^ 

The explanation may easily be found. Extravagant licentious- 
ness, the natural effect of extravagant austerity, was now the 
mode; and licentiousness had produced its ordinary effect, the 
moral and intellectual degradation of women. To their personal 
beauty it was the fashion to pay rude and impudent homage. 
But the admiration and desire which they inspired were seldom 
mingled with respect, with affection, or with any chivalrous sen- 
timent. The qualities which fit them to be companions, advisers, 
confidential friends, rather repelled than attracted the libertines 
of Whitehall. In such circumstances, the standard of female at- 
tainments was necessarily low ; and it was more dangerous to be 
above that standard than to be beneath it. Extreme ignorance 
and frivolity were thought less unbecoming in a lady than the 
slightest tincture of pedantry. 

» One instance will suffice. Queen Mary had good natural abilities, had 
been educated by a bishop, was fond of history and poetry, and was regarded 
by very eminent men as a superior woman. There is, in the library of the 
Hague, a superb English Bible, which was delivered to her when she was 
crowned in Westminster Abbey. In the title-page are these words in her 
own hand: "This book was "given the King and I, at our crownatiou, 
Marie R." 



1837.] NORTON. 657 



MRS. NORTON. 

Caroline Elizabeth Sakah Sheridan is the granddaughter of Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan, and was born about the year 1808. She early showed 
that she inherited the genius of her celebrated ancestor, and in her seven- 
teenth year composed her poem " The Sorrows of Rosalie." " Bereaved 
by death," as it has been said, "of one to whom she had given her heart, 
she became, in an unpropitious hour, the wife of the Hon. George Chappel 
Norton." This was at the early age of nineteen, and it may well be 
asked, how much "heart" she had to give away, when she could so soon 
transfer that heart to another? And if she had not a sincere affection 
for the Hon. (?) George Chappel Norton, the case is worse. Be this as it 
may, the union proved a most unhappy one, and was dissolved in 1840, 
Mrs. Norton having been, for many years, the object of suspicion and per- 
secution of the most mortifying and painful character. That her husband's 
treatment of her was most unjustifiable, no one who is acquainted with the 
history of this most unfortunate union for a moment doubts; but that in 
such cases the fault is all on one side, the world rarely, if ever, believes. 

Mrs. Norton's next work was a poem founded on the ancient legend of 
the " Wandering Jew," which she termed " The Undying One." A third 
volume appeared from her pen in 1840, entitled "The Dream, and other 
Poems." These have given her a very high rank among the female poets 
of England. The " Quarterly Review'' says that "she is the Byron of 
our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion 
by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper 
communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's 
btautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thought, and his force- 
ful expression. It is not an artificial imitation, but a natural parallel." For 
the honor of the sex, I hope the "natural parallel" cannot be carried any 
further. Indeed it cannot. Much of Byron's poetry is "earthly, sensual, 
devilish;" Mrs. Norton's is pure, serene, spiritual, and her moral vision is 
far more elevated than that of the author of Don Juan. We will now let 
her speak fur herself. 

The following impassioned verses are addressed by Mrs. Norton to her 
to whom she has dedicated her poems : — 



TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND. 

Once more, my harp! once more, although I thought 
Never to u-ake thy silent strings again; 

A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought, 
And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain, 

Soars, like a wild bird from a cypress bough, 

Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below ! 

56* 



658 NORTON. [yictoria 

And unto thee — the beautiful and pure — 

Whose lot is cast amid that busy world 
Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure, 

And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furled; 
To thee — whose friendship kept its equal truth 
Through the most dreary hour of my embittered youth — 

I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard, 

In days when jjoverty was twin with song, 
Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starred, 

Cheered by some castle's chief, and harbored long; 
Not Scott's " Last Minstrel," in his trembling lays. 
Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise ! 

For easy are the alms the rich man spares 

To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent ; 
But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, 

Belief — in spite of many a cold dissent — 
When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart 
From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crushed, my heart. 

Thou, then, when cowards lied away my name. 

And scoffed to see me feebly stem the tide ; 
When some were kind on whom I had no claim, 

And some forsook on whom my love relied, 
And sorne, who might have battled for my sake. 
Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world v/ould take — 

Thou gav'st me that the poor do give the poor, 

Kind words and holy wishes, and true tears; 
The loved, the near of kin could do no more; 

Who changed not with the gloom of varying years, 
But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, 
And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn. 

For they who credit crime are they who feel 

Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; 
Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal 

O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win ; 
And tales of broken truth are still believed 
Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. 

But like a white swan down a troubled stream, 

Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling 
Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam 

And mar the freshness of her snowy wing- 
So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, 
Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide : 

Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made 

To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame; 
Thou didst not shrink — of bitter tongues afraid. 

Who hunt in packs the object of their blame; 
To thee the sad denial still held true. 
For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy drew. 



NORTON. 659 

And though my faint and tributary rhymes 

Add nothing to the glory of thy day, 
Yet every poet hopes that after-times 

Shall set some value on his votive lay; 
And I would fain one gentle deed record, 
Among the many such with which thy Ufe is stored. 

So when these lines, made in a mournful hour, 

Are idly opened to the stranger's eye, 
A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power, 

Shall be the first to wander floating by; 
And they who never saw thy lovely face 
Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace ! 



THE MOTHER S HEART. 

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, 
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, 

My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; 

Nor thought that any love again might be 

So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years. 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. 
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given — 

Obedient, easy to be reconciled. 

And meekly cheerful — such wert thou, my child. 

Not willing to be left: still by my side 

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying: 
Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide 

Through the dark room, where I was sadly lying; 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek. 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. 

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness — prone to fade — 
And bending weakly to the thunder shower — 

Still round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 

And clung like woodbine shaken in the wind. 

Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee 
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, 

With thy sweet temper and thy spirit free, 

Didst come as restless as a bird's wing glancing. 

Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth. 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth! 

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth ; 



660 NORTON. [VICTORIA 

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, 

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye! 

And thine was many an art to win and bless, 

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 

The coaxing smile — the frequent soft caress — 
The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! 

Again my heart a new affection found, 

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. 

At length thou camest — thou, the last and least, 

Nicknamed "the emperor" by thy laughing brothers. 

Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others ; 

Mingling with every playful infant wile 

A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming — 
* Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless brow — 

Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming j 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head. 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim, 

I, that all other love had been forswearing, 
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; 

Nor injured either by this love's comparing. 
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call. 
But in the mother's heart found room for all. 



WOMAN S FORTITUDE. 

Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise. 

And what they do, or suffer, men record; 
But the long sacrifice of woman's days 

Passes without a thought, without a word; 
And many a lofty struggle for the sake 

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill'd — 
For which the anxious mind must watch and wake, 

And the strong feelings of the heart be still'd — 
Goes by unheeded as the summer wind. 
And leaves no memory and no trace behind! 
Yet it may be, more lofty courage dwells 

In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate. 
Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells 

Warni'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high debate 
The soldier dies surroimded : could he live 
Alone to suffer, and alone to strive? 



1837.] NORTON. 661 

"A fine proof of Mrs. Norton's wide range of sympathy is to be found 
in the poem descriptive of an Arab's farewell to his horse. The enthu- 
siastic regard, which it is well known the Arab always entertains for his 
steed, finds a most eloquent expositor in our author. The feeling is a beau- 
ful one, and it is beautifully rendered." 



THE ARAB S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. 

My beautiful ! my beautiful ! that standest meekly by, 

With thy proud ly-arch"d and glossy neck, thy dark and fiery eye — 

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed; 

I may not mount on thee again — thou'rt sold, my Arab steed ! 

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snufF not the breezy wind, 

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind. 

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold, 

Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold ! 

Farewell! those free unlired limbs full many a mile must roam, 
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home ; 
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare — 
Thy sillcy mane, I braided once, must be another's care. 
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with tliee 
Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be. 
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain 
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again. 

Yes! thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky. 

Thy master's house, from all of these ray exil'd one must fly. 

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet, 

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet. 

Only in sleep shall 1 behold that dark eye glancing bright; 

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; 

And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed, 

Then must I, starting, wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed ! 

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, 

Till foam- wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side ; 

And the rich blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain, 

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein. 

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought — but no, it cannot be — 

Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd, so gentle yet so free. 

And yet if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn, 

Can the same hand which casts thee off command thee to return ? 

Return? Alas, my Arab steed, what shall thy master do. 

When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view? 

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears, 

Thy Ijright form for a moment like the false mirage appears. 

Slow and unmounted will I roam with weary foot alone. 

Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on : 

And, sitting down by that green well, will pause and sadly think, 

'Tvvas here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink. 



662 NORTON. [VICTORIA 

When last I saw him drink! Away! tbe fever'd dream is o'er; 
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more; 
They tempted me, my beautifid! for hunger's power is strong; 
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have lov'd too long: 
Who said that I had given thee up 1 Who said that thou wert sold ? 
"Tis false, 'tis false ! my Arab steed ! I fling them back their gold. 
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains — 
Away! — Who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains! 



THE BLIND MAN S BRIDE. 

When first, beloved, in vanish'd hours 

The blind man sought thy love to gain, 
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers 

New freshen'd by the summer rain: 
They said thy movements, swift yet soft, 

Were such as make the winged dove 
Seem, as it gently soars aloft. 

The image of repose and love. 

They told me, too, an eager crowd 

Of wooers praised thy beauty rare, 
But that thy heart was all too proud 

A common love to meet or share. 
Ah! thine was neither pride nor scorn, 

But in thy coy and virgin breast 
Dwelt preference, not of passiox born, 

Tlie love that hath a holier rest! 

Days came and went — thy step I heard — • 

Pause frequent as it pass'd me by : 
Days came and went; thy heart was stirr'd, 

And answer'd to my stifled sigh! 
And thou didst make a humble choice, 

Content to be the blind mar.'s bride, 
Who loved thee for thy gentle voice, 

And own'd no joy on earth beside. 

And well by that sweet voice I knew 

(Without the happiness of sight) 
Thy years, as yet, were glad and few — 

Thy smile most innocently bright: 
I knew how full of love's own grace 

The beauty of thy form must be; 
And fancy idolized the face 

Whose loveliness I might not see! 

Oh ! happy were those days, beloved ! 

I almost ceased for light to pine, 
When through the summer vales we roved, 

Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine. 



NORTON. 

Thy soft " Good night" still sweetly cheer'tl 
The unbroken darkness of my doom ; 

And thy " Good morrow, love," endear'd 
Each sunrise that return'd. in gloom! 

At length, as years roU'd swiftly on, 

They spoke to me of Time's decay — 
Of roses from thy smooth cheek gone. 

And ebon ringlets turn'd to gray. 
Ah! then I bless'd the sightless eyes 

Which could not feel the deepening shade. 
Nor watch beneath succeeding skies 

Thy withering beauty faintly fade. 

J saw no paleness on thy cheek. 

No lines upon thy forehead smooth — 
But still the BLIND MAN heard thee speak 

In accents made to bless and soothe: 
Still he could feel thy guiding hand 

As through the woodlands wild we ranged- 
Still in the summer light could stand, 

And know thy heart and voice unchanged. 

And still, beloved, till life grows cold, 

We'll wander 'neath a genial sky. 
And only know that we are old 

By counting happy years gone by: 
For thou to me art still as fair 

As when those happy years began— 
When first thou cara'st to soothe and share 

The sorrows of a sightless man ! 

Old Time, who changes all below. 

To wean men gently for the grave, 
Hath brought us no increase of woe, 

And leaves us all he ever gave: 
For I am still a helpless thing. 

Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by thee— 
And thou art she whose beauty's spring 

The blind man vainly yearn'd to see! 



A MOTHER. 

Ah! blessed are they for whom, 'mid all their pains, 
That Aiithful and unaltered love remains; 
Who, Life wrecked round them— hunted from then- rest— 
And, 'by all else forsaken or distressed- 
Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine — 
As I, my Mother, claimed my place in thine! 
Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace 
My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face : 



663 



664 NORTON. [VICTORIA 

Oft see tliy form, its mournful beauty shrouded 

In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe; 
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded 

By that deep wretchedness the lonely know : 
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task, 

Conned by unwilling lips, with listless air; 
Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask 

More than the widow's pittance then could spare. 
Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, 

Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts. 
But the long self-denial, day by day, 

Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts! 
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain. 

The young rebellious spirits crowding round, 
Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, 

And could not comfort — yet had power to wound! 
Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown 
Familiar with deep trials of its own, 
With riper judgment looking to the past, 
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast. 
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, 
And darkens every folly into crime! 



SONNET— TO MY BOOKS. 

Silent companions of the lonely hour. 

Friends, who can never alter or forsake, 
Who for inconstant roving have no power, 

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take — 
Let me return to you; this turmoil ending 

Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought. 
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, 

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, 
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time. 

Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime 

My native language spoke in friendly tone, 
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
On these, my unripe musings, told so well. 



SONNET THE WEAVER. 

Little they think, the giddy and the vain, 

Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, 

While the light glossy silk or rustling train 
Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, 

How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom, 
Crossing in silence the perplexing thread, 



1837.] NORTON. ^^^ 

Pent in the confines of one narrow room, 

Where droops complainingly his cheerless head: 

Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, 

Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, 

The devious mingling of those various dyes 
Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands : 

But the day cometh when the tired shall rest— 

Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham s breast! 



COMMON BLESSINGS. 

Those « common blessings !" In this chequered scene 

How Httle thanksgiving ascends to bod! 
Is it, in truth, a privilege so mean ^ 

To wander with free footsteps o er the sod. 

See various blossoms paint the valley clod, 
And all things into teeming beauty burst? 

A miracle as great as Aaron's rod. 
But that our senses, into dullness nurst, 
Recurring Custom still with Apathy hath curst. 

They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure; 

They who most suffer value Suffering s pause ; 
They who but seldom taste the simplest pleasure, 

Kneel oftenest to the Giver and the Cause. 

Heavy the curtains feasting Luxury draws. 
To hide the sunset and the silver night; 

While humbler hearts, when care no longer gnaws, 
And some rare Koliday permits delight. 
Lingering, with love would watch that earth-enchanting sight. 



THE PRISON CHAPLAIN. 

I saw one man, armed simply with God's Word, 

Enter the souls of many fellow-men. 
And pierce them sharply as a two-edg d sword. 

While conscience echoed back his words agam; 

Till, even as showers of fertilizing rain 
Sink through the bosom of the valley clod, 

So their hearts opened to the wholesome pain, 
And hundreds knelt upon the flowery sod. 
One good man's earnest prayer the link 'twixt them and God. 

That amphitheatre of awe-struck heads 
Is still before me : there the Mother bows 

And o'er her slumbering infant meekly sheds 
Unusual tears. There, knitting his dark barqyrg, 
The penitent blasphemer utters vows 

57 



666 BROWNING. [VICTORIA 

Of holy import. There, the kindly man, 

Whose one weak vice went near to bid him lose 
All he most valued when his life began, 
Abjures the evil course which first he blindly ran. 

There, with pale eyelids heavily weighed down 

By a new sense of overcoming shame, 
A youthful Magdalen, whose arm is thrown 

Round a young sister who deserves no blame; 

As though like innocence she now would claim. 
Absolved by a pure God ! And, near her, sighs 

The father who refused to speak her name : 
Her penitence is written in her eyes — 
Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her, ere she rise ? 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

The facts in the life of Elizabeth Barrett Broavning, one of the most 
distinguished of the female poets of England, which have come to our know- 
ledge, are very few. Up to her marriage with Robert Browning (himself 
no mean poet) , in November, 1846, she went very little into society. Since 
that time she has resided with her husband in Florence, and is now (1851) 
about forty years of age. 

Mrs. Browning's publications are as follows: "Essay on Mind, a 
Poem ;" " Prometheus Bound, and Miscellaneous Poems ;" " The Sera- 
phim, and other Poems:" "Collected Poems," in two volumes; "A 
Drama of Exile, and other Poems," two volumes. 

Mrs. Browning has been styled " the learned poetess of the day, familiar 
with Homer and ^schylus, and Sophocles, and to the musings of Tempe 
she has added the inspirations of Christianity." This is readily granted, 
and yet we cannot say that her poetry, as a whole, deeply interests us. 
With the exception of some few pieces, it takes no permaiSent hold upon 
the heart, simply because it is addressed more to the reason than to the 
feelings or affections. The following, we think, ^re some of her best 
pieces — pieces of the most simplicity and feeling, if they do not, so well as 
some others, illustrate her general style. 



THE PET-NAME. 

I have a name, a little name, 

Uncadenced for the ear; 
TJnhonored by ancestral claim, 
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm 
The solemn font anear. 



BROWNING. 667 

Though I write books, it will be read 

Upon the leaves of none ; 
And afterwards, when I am dead. 
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread 

Across my funeral stone. 

Whoever chanceth it to call, 

May chance your smile to win ; — 
Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
Over mine eyes, and feel withal 

The sudden tears within ! 

My brother gave that name to me 

When we were children twain ; 
When names acquired baptismally 
Were hard to utter, as to see 

That life had any pain. 

No shade was on us then, save one 

Of chestnuts from the hill — 
And through the word our laugh did run 
As part thereof! The mirth being done. 

He calls me by it still ! 

Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it 

What none of you can hear ! 
The talk upon the willow seat, 
The bird and wind that did repeat 

Around our human cheer ! 

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, 

My sister's woodland glee — 
My father's praise I did not miss. 
What time he stooped down to kiss 

The poet at his knee — 

And voices — which to name me, aye 

Most tender tones were keeping! 
To some I never more can say 
An answer, till God wipes away 

In heaven these drops of weeping ! 

My name to me a sadness wears — 

No murmurs cross my mind — 
Now God be thanked for these thick tears, 
Which show of those departed years. 

Sweet memories left behind ! 

Now God be thanked for years enwrought 

With love which softens yet; 
Now God be thanked for every thought 
Which is so tender, it hath caught 

Earth's guerdon of regret ! 

Earth may embitter, not remove. 

The love divinely given : 
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 



668 BROWNING. [VICTORIA 



The immortality of love, 

And lead us nearer Heaven ! 



THE LADT^S YES. 

"Yes!" I ansvi^ered you last night j 
" No!" this morning, sir, I say I 

Colors, seen by candle-light. 
Will not look the same by day. 

When the tabors played their best, 
Lamps above and laughs below — 

Love me sounded like a jest, 
Fit for Yes or fit for No. 

Call me false, or dall me free — 
Vow, whatever light may shine, 

No man on thy face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both — 
Time to dance is not to woo — 

Wooer light makes fickle troth — 
Scorn of me recoils on you. 

Learn to win a lady's faith 
Nobly, as the thing is high j 

Bravely, as for life and death — 
With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards. 
Point her to the starry skies. 

Guard her by your truthful words, 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true — 
Ever true as wives of yore — 

And her Yes, once said to you, 
Shall be Yes forevermore. 



victoria's TEARS.* 

O maiden! heir of kings! 
A king has left his place ; 
The majesty of Death has swept 
All other from his face ! 



* When Queen Victoria was informed of her accession to the throne on the 
death of her uncle, she was so affected with the consciousness of the heavy 
responsibilities which had in a moment fallen upon her, that she wept. 



BROWNING. 

And thou, upon thy mother's breast, 

No longer lean adown, 
But take the Glory for the Rest, 
And rule the land that loves thee best. 

She heard and wept — 

She wept to wear a crown ! 

They deck'd her courtly halls: 

Theyrein'd her hundred steeds; 
They shouted at her palace gate, 

" A noble Queen succeeds !" 
Her name has stirr'd the mountain's sleep, 

Her praise has fiU'd the town. 
And mourners God had stricken deep, 
Look'd hearkening up, and did not weep. 

Alone she wept. 

Who wept to wear a crown ! 

She saw no purples shine, 

For tears had dimm'd her eyes; 
She only knew her childhood's flowers 

Were happier pageantries ! 
And while her heralds play'd their part, 

Those million shouts to drown — 
" God save the Queen" from hill to mart, 
She heard through all her beating heart, 

And turn'd and wept— 

She wept to wear a crown ! 

God save thee, weeping Queen ! 

Thou Shalt be well beloved ! 
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move 

As those pure tears have moved ! 
The nature in thine eyes we see 

That tyrants cannot own — 
The love that guardeth liberties ! 
Strange blessing on the nation lies. 

Whose sovereign wept — 

Yea, wept to wear a crown! 

God bless thee ! weeping Queen! 

With blessing more divine ! 
And fill with happier love than earth's 

That tender heart of thine! 
That when the thrones of earth shall be 

As low as graves brought down — 
A pierced hand may give to thee 
The crown which angels shout to see ! 

Thou wilt not weep 

To wear that heavenly crown ! 



57^ 



670 BROWNING. [VICTORIA 



THE SLEEP. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 

Along the Psalmist's music deep- 
Now tell me if that any is, 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved — 

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep — ■ 
The senate's shout to patriot vows — 
The monarch's crown to light the brows ? — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith, all undisproved — 

A little dust to over weep — 
And bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake ! 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, 
But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ; 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber, when 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
O delved gold, the wallers' heap ! 

strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

And " giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dew-drops mutely on the hill ; 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men toil and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Ha! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man. 

In such a rest his heart to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 ween their blessed smile is heard — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep !" 

For me, my heart, that erst did go. 
Most like a tired child at a show, 



BROWNING. ^^1 



. That sees through tears the juggler's leap- 
Would now its wearied vision close, 
Would childlike on His love repose, 

Who " giveth His beloved sleep !" 
And friends !— dear friends !— when it shall be 
That this low breath has gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep— 
Let me, most loving of you all. 
Say, not a tear must o'er her fall— 

« He giveth His beloved sleep !" 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 

" There is no God," the foolish saith — 

But none, " There is no sorrow ;" 
And nature oft the cry of faith. 

In bitter need, will borrow ; 
Eyes which the preacher could not school. 

By wayside graves are raised ; 
And lips say » God be pitiful," 

Who ne'er said " God be praised." 

Be pitiful, O God! 

The tempest stretches from the steep 

The shadow of its coming— 
The beasts grow tame, and near us cr'eep, 

As help were in the human — 
Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind 

We spirits tremble under ! 
The hills have echoes ; but we find 

No answer for the thunder. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

The battle hurtles on the plains- 
Earth feels new scythes upon her; 

We reap our brothers for the wains. 
And call the harvest honor. 

Draw face to face, front line to line. 
One image all inherit — 

Then kill, curse on, by that same sign. 
Clay, clay— and spirit, spirit. 

Be pitiful, God! 

The plague runs festering through the town- 

And never a bell is tolling ; 
And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon. 

Nod to the dead-cart's rolling ! 
The young child calleth for the cup — 

The strong man brings it weeping 5 
The mother from her babe looks up, 

And shrieks away its sleeping. 

Be pitiful, God! 



672 BROWNING. [VICTORIA 

The plague of gold strikes far and near — 

And deep and strong it enters : 
Tiiis purple chimar which we wear 

Makes madder than the centaur's. 
Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange; 

We cheer the pale gold-diggers — 
Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, 

And marked, like sheep, with figures. 
Be pitiful, God ! 

The curse of gold upon the land, 

The lack of bread enforces — 
The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, 

Like more of Death's white horses ! 
The rich preach " rights" and future days. 

And hear no angel scoffing ; 
The poor die mute — with starving gaze 

On corn-ships in the offing. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

We tremble by the harmless bed 

Of one loved and departed — 
Our tears drop on the lips that said 

Last night, "Be stronger hearted !" 
O God — to clasp those fingers close, 

And yet to feel so lonely ! — 
To see a light on dearest brows. 

Which is the daylight only ! 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The happy children come to us. 

And look up in our faces : 
They ask us — Was it thus, and thus, 

When we were in their places ? 
We cannot speak — we see anew 

The hills we used to live in ; 
And feel our mother's smile press through 

The kisses she is giving. 

Be pitiful, God ! 
* * * * * 

And soon all vision waxeth dull — 

Men whisper, " He is dying;" 
We cry no more, " Be pitiful !" 

We have no strength for crying ! — 
No strength, no need ! Then, soul of mine, 

Look up and triumph rather — 
Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, 

The Son adjures the Father — 

Be pitiful, God ! 



I 



1837.] WHATELY. 673 



RICHARD WHATELY, 1787 

Whether we look at the intrinsic merits of his writings, or to the wide 
influence they have exerted upon that class of minds that are in their turn 
to influence the world, no writer of the present century stands higher than 
Richard Whately, D. D., Archbishop of Dublin. As a writer, his distinct- 
ive characteristics are, a thorough knowledge of his subject, perfect candor 
in stating all its difficulties, great clearness of style, and a remarkable free- 
dom from all narrow and sectarian views. While he is, of course, most 
attached to his own branch of the Christian church, he can see and appre- 
ciate the good in all other denominations ; and is not one of those who deem 
it necessary to destroy the foundation of others, before he can begin to build 
up his own.' 

Of the numerous works of Dr. Whately, the "Elements of Logic" and 
"Elements of Rhetoric" have had the most extensive circulation. His 
"Kingdom of Christ Delineated, in two Essays," is an able and lucid 
argument on the Nature of Christ's Kingdom, and on the Constitution, 
Powers, and Ministry of the Christian Church, and is written in a most 
catholic spirit. In his "Thoughts on the Sabbath," he takes the true 
scriptural ground of the proper observance of the "Lord's Day," showing 
that "the Sabbath was made for man," and removes the obligation far 
observing it, "from the foundation of sand, on which it is ordinarily placed, 
to fix it upon a rock." 

Of the general character of his works, a writer in the " Edinburgh Re- 
view"^ thus speaks: "Though this lucid and eloquent writer may, for 
obvious reasons, be most widely known by his ' Logic' and ' Rhetoric,' the 

' The following is, I believe, a correct list of his works :* "Elements of 
Logic," which has reached nine editions in England, been often republished 
here, and introduced as a text-book into some of our first colleges ; " Elements 
of Rhetoric," of which the seventh edition has been published in England, and 
which has also had a very extensive circulation here ; " Introductory Lectures 
on Political Economy," third edition ; " Historic Doubts relative to Napoleon 
Bonaparte," ninth edition; "Easy Lessons on Reasoning," fifth edition; 
«' Easy Lessons on Money Matters," tenth edition ; " The Kingdom of Christ 
Delineated," fourth edition; "Essays on some of the Peculiarities of the 
Christian Religion," sixth edition; "Essays on some of the Difficulties in the 
Writings of the Apostle Paul," sixth edition ; " Essays on the Errors of Ro- 
manism," third edition; " Essays on some of the Dangers to Christian Faith 
which may arise from the Teaching or the Conduct of its Professors," second 
edition; "The Use and Abuse of Party-Feeling in Matters of Religion," 
third edition; " Thoughts on Church Government ;" "A View of the Scripture 
Revelations concerning a Future State, laid before his Parishioners, by a 
Country Pastor," fifth edition; "Thoughts on the Sabbath," "Introductory 
Lessons on Christian Evidences," together with numerous " Charges," " Ser- 
mons," &c., on various points of Christian duty. 

2 "Edinburgh Review," September, 1849. 



* I obtained it of his publisher, John W. Parker, West Strand, London. 



674 WHATELY. [VICTORIA 

time will come when his Theological Works will be, if not more widely 
read, still more highly prized. To great powers of argument and illustra- 
tion, and delightful transparency of diction and style, he adds a higher 
quaUty still — and a very rare quality it is — an evident and intense honesty 
of purpose, an absorbing desire to arrive at the exact truth, and to state it 
with perfect fairness and with just limitations. Without pretending to agree 
with all that Archbishop Whately has written on the subject of Theology 
(though he carries his readers with him as frequently as any writer with 
whom we are acquainted), we may remark that, in relation to that whole 
class of subjects to which our present essay has reference, we know of no 
writer of the present day whose contributions are more numerous or more 
valuable. The highly ingenious ironical brochure entitled ' Historic Doubts 
relative to Napoleon Bonaparte,' the essays, above mentioned, ' On some 
of the Peculiarities of the Christian Religion,' those ' On some of the 
Dangers to Christian Faith,' and 'Errors of Romanism,' the work on the 
'Kingdom of Christ,' not to mention others, are well worthy of universal 
perusal. They abound in views both original and just, stated with all the 
author's aptness of illustration and transparency of language. We may 
remark, too, that in many of his occasional sermons, he has incidentally 
added many most beautiful fragments to that ever-accumulating mass of 
internal evidence which the Scriptures themselves supply in their structure, 
and which is evolved by diligent investigation of the relation and coherence 
of one part of them with another." 



TRUE FOUNDATION OE CHURCH ENACTMENTS. 

The Eock on whicli I am persuaded our reformers intended, 
and rightly intended, to rest the ordinances of our church, is, 
the warrant to be found in the Holy Scriptures written by, or 
under the direction of, those to whom our Lord had entrusted the 
duty of ^Heaching men to observe all things whatsoever He had 
commanded them." For in those Scriptures we find a divine 
sanction clearly given to a regular Christian community — a 
church; which is, ^^a congregation (that is, society or commu- 
nity; eGclesid) of faithful men,^ in the which the pure Word of 
God is preached, and the sacraments duly administered according 
to Christ's ordinance, in all those things which of necessity are 
requisite to the same." 

This, which I have called a foundation on a rock, is evidently 
that on which (as has been just observed) our reformers designed 
to place our church. 

While they strongly deny to any church the power to ^^ ordain 

. ' That is, believers in Christ — fideles — ma-rot. 



1837.] WHATELY. 67& 

anything contrary to God's Word/' or to require as essential to 
salvation, belief in anything not resting on scriptural authority, 
they claim the power for each church of ordaining and altering 
"rites and ceremonies/' "so that all things be done to edifying/' 
and nothing "contrary to God's Word." 

And they rest the claims of ministers, not on some supposed 
sacramental virtue transmitted from hand to hand in unjbroken 
succession from the apostles, in a chain, of which if any one link 
be even doubtful, a distressing uncertainty is thrown over all 
Christian ordinances, sacraments, and church-privileges for ever; 
but on the fact of those ministers being the regularly-appointed 
officers of a regular Christian community. 

Those who are not satisfied with the foundation thus laid — and 
which, as I have endeavored to show, is the very foundation which 
Christ and his apostles have prepared for us — who seek to take 
higher ground, as the phrase is, and maintain what are called^ 
according to the modern fashion, "church principles," or "Church- 
of-England principles," are in fact subverting the principles both 
of our own church in particular, and of every Christian church 
that claims the inherent rights belonging to a community, and 
confirmed by the sanction of God's Word as contained in the Holy 
Scriptures. It is advancing, but not in the right road — it is 
advancing not in sound learning, but error — not in faith, but in 
superstitious credulity, to seek for some higher and better ground 
on which to rest our doctrines and institutions than that on which 
they were placed by the "Author and Finisher of our Faith."^ 

But, if any person claim for any traditions of the church, an 
authority, either paramount to Scripture, or equal to Scripture, or 
concurrent with it — or, which comes to the very same thing, de- 
cisive as to the interpretation of iScripture — taking on themselves 

' It is curious to observe how very common it is for any Sect or Party to 
assume a title indicative of the very excellence in which they are especially 
deficient, or strongly condemnatory of the very errors with which they are 
especially chargeable. Thus, those who from time to time have designated 
themselves "Gnostics," i. e. persons '■'•hiowing''' the Gospel, in a far superior 
degree to other professed Christians — have been generally remarkable for their 
want of knowledge of the very first rudiments of evangelical truth. The phrase 
" Catholic" religion («. e. " Universal") is the most commonly in the mouths 
of those who are the most limited and exclusive in their views, and who seek 
to shut out the largest number of Christian communities from the Gospel- 
covenant. " Schism," again, is by none more loudly reprobated than by those 
who are not only the immediate authors of schism, but the advocates of prin- 
ciples tending to generate and perpetuate schisms without end. And " Church- 
principles" — " High-church principles" — " Church-of-England principles" — 
are the favorite terms of those who go the furthest in subverting all these. 
Obvious as this fallacy is, there is none more commonly successful in throw- 
ing men off their guard. 



676 WHATELY. [VICTORIA 

to decide what is " the church/' and wJiat tradition is to be thus 
received — these persons are plainly called on to establish by mi- 
raculous evidence the claims they advance. And if they make 
their appeal, not to miracles wrought by themselves, but to those 
which originally formed the evidence of the Gospel, they are bound 
to show by some decisive proof, that that evidence can fairly be 
brought to bear upon and authenticate their pretension; that they 
are, by Christ's decree, the rightful depositories of the power they 
claim. 

Kingdom of Christ. 



A PRIMITIVE BISHOP. 

It seems plainly to have been at least the general, if not the 
universal, practice of the apostles, to appoint over each separate 
church a single individual as a chief governor, under the title of 
^^angeV (i.e. messenger or legate from the apostles) or '^Bishop," 
i. e. superintendent or overseer. A church and a diocese seem 
to have been for a considerable time coextensive and identical. And 
each church or diocese (and consequently each superintendent), 
though connected with the rest by ties of faith and hope and 
charity, seems to have been (as has been already observed) per- 
fectly independent as far as regards any power of control. 

The plan pursued by the apostles seems to have been, as has 
been above remarked, to establish a great number of small (in 
comparison with modern churches) distinct and independent com- 
munities, each governed by its own single bishop, consulting, no 
doubt, with his own presbyters, and accustomed to act in concur- 
rence with them, and occasionally conferring with the brethren in 
other churches, but owing no submission to the rulers of any other 
church, or to any central common authority except the apostles 
themselves. And other points of difference might be added. 

Now to vindicate the institutions of our own, or of some other 
church, on the ground that they "are not in themselves super- 
stitious or ungodly" — that they are not at variance with Gospel- 
principles, or with any divine injunction that was designed to be 
of universal obligation, is intelligible and reasonable. But to vin- 
dicate them on the ground of the exact conformity, which it is 
notorious they do not possess, to the most ancient models, and 
even to go beyond this, and condemn all Christians whose institu- 
tions and ordinances are not "one and utterly like" our own, on 
the ground of their departure from the apostolical precedents, 
which no church has exactly adhered to — does seem — to use no 



1837.] WHATELY. 677 

harsher expression — not a little inconsistent and unreasonable. 
And yet one may not unfrequently hear members of Episcopalian 
churches pronouncing severe condemnation on those of other com- 
munions^ and even excluding them from the Christian body, on 
the ground, not of their not being under the hest form of eccle- 
siastical government,* but, of their wanting the very essentials of 
a Christian church: viz., the very same distinct orders in the 
hierarchy that the apostles appointed : and this, while the Epis- 
copalians themselves have, universally, so far varied from the 
apostolical institutions as to have in one church several hisliops; 
each of whom consequently differs in the office he holds, in a most 
important point, from one of the primitive bishops, as much as the 
governor of any one of our colonies does from a sovereign prince. 

Now whether the several alterations, and departures from the 
original institutions, were or were not, in each instance, made on 
good grounds, in accordance with an altered state of society, is a 
question which cannot even be entertained by those who hold that 
no church is competent to vary at all from the ancient model. 
Their principle would go to exclude at once from the pale of 
Christ's church almost every Christian body since the first two or 
three centuries. 

The edifice they overthrow crushes in its fall the blind champion 
who has broken its pillars. 

The same. 



THE APOSTOLIC SUCCESSION. 

But as there are some persons who are too ready to separate from 
any religious community on slight grounds, or even through mere 
caprice, to " heap up to themselves teachers, having itching ears,'' 
it has been thought — or at least maintained — that the only way 
of affording complete satisfaction and repose to the scrupulous, and 
of repressing schism, is to uphold, under the title of ^' church 
principles,'^ the doctrine that no one is a member of Christ's 
church, and an heir of the covenanted gospel-promises, who is not 
under a ministry ordained by bishops descended in an unbroken 
chain from the apostles. 

Now what is the degree of satisfactory assurance that is thus 

'■ It is remarkable that there are Presbyteria7ts, also, who proceed oa similar 
principles ; who contend that originally the distinctions between bishops and 
presbyters did not exist; and consequently (not that episcopacy is not esse7itml 
to a church, but) that episcopal government \^z.wnmvarrantable innovation — 
an usurpation — a profane departure from the divine ordinances ! 

Whately''s note. 

58 



678 WHATELY. [VICTORIA 

afforded to the scrupulous consciences of any members of an epis- 
copal churcb. ? If a man consider it as highly probable that the 
particular minister at whose hands he receives the sacred ordi- 
nances, is really thus apostolically descended, this is the very 
utmost point to which he can, with any semblance of reason, 
attain : and the more he reflects and inquires, the more cause for 
hesitation he will find. There is not a minister in all Christendom 
who is able to trace up with any approach to certainty his own 
spiritual pedigree. The sacramental virtue (for such it is, that is 
implied — whether the term be used or not in the principle I have 
been speaking of) dependent on the imposition of hands, with a 
due observance of apostolical usages, by a bishop, himself duly 
consecrated, after having been in like manner baptized into the 
church, and ordained deacon and priest — this sacramental virtue, 
if a single link of the chain be faulty, must, on the above prin- 
ciples, be utterly nullified ever after, in respect of all the links 
that hang on that one. For if a bishop has not been duly con- 
secrated, or had not been, previously, rightly ordained, his ordi- 
nations are null; and so are the ministrations of those ordained 
by him; and their ordination of others (supposing any of the 
persons ordained by him to attain to the episcopal office) ; and so on, 
without end. The poisonous taint of informality, if it once creep 
in undetected, will spread the infection of nullity to an indefinite 
and irremediable extent. 

And who can undertake to pronounce that, during that long pe- 
riod usually designated as the Dark Ages, no such taint ever was 
introduced ? Irregularities could not have been wholly excluded 
without a perpetual miracle; and that no such miraculous inter- 
ference existed, we have even historical proof. Amidst the nume- 
rous corruptions of doctrine and of practice, and gross superstitions, 
that crept in, during those ages, we fina recorded descriptions not 
only of the profound ignorance and profligacy of life of many of 
the clergy, but also of the grossest irregularities in respect of 
discipline and form. We read of bishops consecrated when mere 
children; of men officiating who barely knew their letters — of 
prelates expelled, and others put into their places, by violence ; of 
illiterate and profligate laymen, and habitual drunkards, admitted 
to holy orders ; and in short, of the prevalence of every kind of dis- 
order, and reckless disregard of the decency which the apostle en- 
joins. It is inconceivable that any one even moderately acquainted 
with history, can feel a certainty, or any approach to certainty, that, 
amidst all this confusion and corruption, every requisite form was, 
in every instance, strictly adhered to, by men, many of them 
openly profane and secular, unrestrained by public opinion, through 



1837.] WHATELY. 679 

the gross ignorance of the population among which they lived; and 
that no one, not duly consecrated or ordained, was admitted to 
sacred offices. 

Even in later and more civilized and enlightened times, the pro- 
bability of an irregularity, though very greatly diminished, is yet 
diminished only, and not absolutely destroyed. Even in the 
memory of persons living, there existed a bishop concerning whom 
there was so much mystery and uncertainty prevailing as to when, 
where, and by whom, he had been ordained, that doubts existed 
in the mind of many persons whether he had ever been ordained 
at all. I do not say that there was good ground for the suspicion; 
but I speak of the fact, that it did prevail; and that the circum- 
stances of the case were such as to make manifest the possihilitr/ 
of such an irregularity occurring under such circumstances. 

Now, let any one proceed on the hypothesis that there are, sup- 
pose, but a hundred links connecting any particular minister with 
the apostles; and let him even suppose that not above half of this 
number pass through such periods as admit of any possible irre- 
gularity; and then, placing at the lowest estimate the probability 
of defectiveness in respect of each of the remaining fifty, taken 
separately, let him consider what amount of probability will result 
from the multiplying of the whole together.^ The ultimate con- 
sequence must be, that any one who sincerely believes that his 
claim to the benefits of the gospel-covenant depends on his own 
minister's claim to the supposed sacramental virtue of true ordi- 
nation, and this again, on perfect apostolical succession as above 
described, must be involved, in proportion as he reads, and inquires, 
and reflects, and reasons, on the subject, in the most distressing 
doubt and perplexity. 

It is no wonder, therefore, that the advocates of this theory 
studiously disparage reasoning, deprecate all exercise of the mind 
in reflection, decry appeals to evidence, and lament that even the 
power of reading should be imparted to the people. It is not 
without cause that they dread and lament "an age of too much 
light," and wish to involve religion in "a solemn and awful 



* Supposing it to be one hundred to one, in each separate case, in favor of 
the legitimacy and regularity of the transmission, and the links to amount to 
fifty (or any other number), the probability of the unbroken continuity of the 
whole chain must be computed as -^^^ of j^^ of ^qq, &c., to the end of the 
whole fifty. Of course, if different data are assumed, or a different system is 
adopted of computing the rate at which the uncertainty increases at each step, 
the ultimate result will be different as to the degree of uncertainty ; but when 
once it is made apparent that a considerable and continually-increasing uncer- 
tainty does exist, and that the result must be, in respect of any individual case, 
a matter of chance, it can be of no great consequence to ascertain precisely 
what the chances are on each side. • 



680 WHATELY. [VICTORIA 

gloorn/'^ It is not without cause that, having removed the Christ- 
ian's confidence from a rock, to base it on sand, they forbid all 
prying curiosity to examine their foundation. 

The same. 



THE PURE GOSPEL ULTIMATELY TO TRIUMPH. 

It is a great consolation to us to look forward, as I think we are 
authorized to do, to a time when not only the knowledge of the 
gospel will be greatly extended, but also the influence of the gos- 
pel on Christians' hearts, and tempers, and lives — " the knowledge 
and love of God," and the "fruits of his Spirit" — will be still 
much more increased; when those who are Christians in name, 
will be much less disposed to content themselves with the name — 
much more careful to be Christians in principle and in conduct — 
than the far greater part of them are now : when Christians, ge- 
nerally, will not look, as they are apt to do now, on the apostles 
and others of the early church whom it is usual to distinguisli by 
the title of saint, as possessing a degree and a kind of Christian 
excellence which it would be vain and presumptuous for ordinary 
Christians to think of equalling; but will consider, and practically 
remember, that all Christians are " called to be saints," and endued 
with the Holy Spirit of God; not indeed to inspire them with a 
new revelation, or to confer any miraculous gifts (which do not 
either prove, or make, the possessor the more acceptable in God's 
sight), but to enable them to purify their own hearts and lives. 
The wicked Balaam was a prophet; and the traitor Judas worked 
miracles. These extraordinary powers, therefore, are neither any 
proof of superior personal holiness, nor any substitute for it in 
God's sight. Nor is the absence of thc^e miraculous gifts in our- 
selves any argument that a less degree of Christian virtue will 
suffice for our salvation than was required of the apostles. 

Let us hope that the time will come when Christian privileges 
and duties shall be generally viewed in this manner, and when 
such views shall be acted upon. Whether any of us shall live to 
see the beginning of such a change, is more than we can tell. 
Nay, we cannot tell whether each of us may not even be enabled, 
by his own example, and his own exertions in enlightening and im- 
proving others, to do something towards bringing about this change. 
But this we do know most certainly, that each of us is bound, in 
gratitude for Christ's redeeming mercy — in prudent care for his own 



I 



1837.] WHATELY. 681 

immortal soul-— to labor earnestly after such a change in his oicn 
life and heart. We are, each of us, bound, at his own peril, to 
think, and live, and act, in such a manner as would, if all Christ- 
ians were to do the same, bring about, and indeed constitute, this 
Millennium of Christian zeal and holiness. And each of us who 
does this, whether others follow his example or not, "shall in no 
wise lose his own reward." 

Scripture Revelations. 



FRIENDS RECOGNIZED IN HEAVEN. 

I am convinced that the extension and perfection of friendship 
will constitute great part of the future happiness of the blest. 
Many have lived in various and distant ages and countries, who 
have been, in their characters (I mean not merely in their being 
generally estimable, but) in the agreement of their tastes, and suit- 
ableness of dispositions, perfectly adapted for friendship with each 
other, but who of course could never meet in this world. Many 
a one selects, when he is reading history — a truly pious Christian, 
most especially in reading Sacred history — some one or two favor- 
ite characters, with whom he feels that a personal acquaintance 
would have been peculiarly delightful to him. Why should not 
such a desire be realized in a future state? A wish to see and 
personally know, for example, the Apostle Paul, or John, is the 
most likely to arise in the noblest and purest mind; I should be 
sorry to think such a wish absurd and presumptuous, or unlikely 
ever to be gratified. The highest enjoyment doubtless to the blest, 
will be the personal knowledge of their great and beloved Master; 
yet I cannot but think that some part of their happiness will con- 
sist in an intimate knowledge of the greatest of his followers also; 
and of those of them in particular whose peculiar qualities are, 
to each, the most peculiarly attractive. 

In this world, again, our friendships are limited not only to those 
who live in the same age and country, but to a small portion even 
of them ; to a small portion even of those who are not unknown to us, 
and whom we know to be estimable and amiable, and who, we feel, 
might have been among our dearest friends. Our command of 
time and leisure to cultivate friendships imposes a limit to their 
extent; they are bounded rather by the occupation of our thoughts, 
than of our affections. And the removal of such impediments in 
a better world seems to me a most desirable, and a most probable 
change. 

I see no reason again why those who have heen dearest friends 
58* 



682 COOK. [victoria 

on earth should not, when admitted to that happy state, continue 
to be so, with full knowledge and recollection of their former friend- 
ship. If a man is still to continue (as there is every reason to 
suppose) a social being, and co.pable of friendship, it seems con- 
trary to all probability that he should cast off or forget his former 
friends, who are partakers with him of the like exaltation. He 
will indeed be greatly changed from what he was on earth, and 
unfitted perhaps for friendship with such a being as one of us is 
now; but his friend will have undergone (by supposition) a cor- 
responding change.^ And as we have seen those who have been 
loving playfellows in childhood, grow up, if they grow up with 
good, and with like dispositions, into still closer friendship in riper 
years, so also it is probable that when this our state of childhood 
shall be perfected, in the maturity of a better world, the like at- 
tachment will continue between those companions who have trod 
together the Christian path to glory, and have "taken sweet counsel 
together, and walked in the house of God as friends." 

The same . 



ELIZA COOK. 



Eliza Cook is a living poetess of deserved celebrity. "By the simple 
force of genius, and w^ithout any aid from adventitious circumstances, she 
has pushed her way into the front rank of female talent, and stands ac- 
knowledged as one of the most attractive writers of song in English 
Uterature." Her characteristics are great freedom, ease, and heartiness of 
sentiment and expression, and she makes you feel at once that her whole 
heart is in all she writes, that she gives full utterance to the depths of her 
soul — a soul that is in sympathy with all that is pure and true. She evi- 
dently has.no regard for conventionalism, but gives, without fear, her own 
actual thoughts, and yet never transcends the limits of taste and delicacy. 
A volume of her poems appeared in England in 1840, and was republished 
here in 1844, under the title of " Melaia, and other Poems." 

* The same thought is beautifully expressed by one of the most excellent 
of sacred poets, the author of the " Christian Year :" — 
" That so, before the judgment-seat, 

Though changed and glorified each face, 
Not unremember'd we may meet, 
For endless ages to embrace." 



1837.] COOK. - 683 



THE WORLD. 

Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall, 

Yet, yet there is bloom on the waste; 
Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall, 

There are honey-drops, too, for the taste. 

We murmur and droop should a sorrowrcloud stay. 

And note all the shades of our lot ; 
But the rich rays of sunshine that brighten our way, 

Are bask'd in, enjoy'd, and forgot. 

Those who look on Mortality's ocean aright, 

Will not mourn o'er each billow that rolls ; 
But dwell on the beauties, the glories, the might, 

As much as the shipwrecks and shoals. 

How thankless is he who remembers alone 

All the bitter, the drear, and the dark ; 
Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone, 

Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark? 

We may utter farewell when 'tis torture to part. 

But in meeting the dear one again 
Have we never rejoic'd with that wildness of heart 

Which outbalances ages of pain ? 

Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss, 

When the soul, in its fulness of love, 
Would waver if bidden to choose between this 

And the paradise promised above 1 

Though the eye may be dimmed with its grief-drop awhile, 

And the whiten'd lip sigh forth its fear — 
Yet pensive indeed is that face where the smile 

Is not oftener seen than the tear ! 

There are times when the storm-gust may rattle around. 
There are spots where the poison-shrub grows, 

Yet are there not homes where naught else can be found 
But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose? 

O haplessly rare is the portion that 's ours. 

And strange is the path that we take, 
If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers, 

To soften the thorn and the brake. 

The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife 

The soul's harmony often may mar — 
But I think we must own, in the discord of Life, 

'Tis ourselves that oft waken the jar. 

Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom ; 

And the voice of the grateful will tell 
That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb, 

Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well. 



684 COOK. [VICTORIA 

Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit oppress'd, 

O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine — 
Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast, 

And some pleasure must kindle in mine ! 

Then say not the world is a desert of thrall. 

There is bloom, there is light, on the waste ; 
Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall, 

There are honey-drops, too, for the taste. 



CUPID S ARROW. 

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day. 

And besought him to look at his arrow. 
' 'Tis useless," he cried ; "you must mend it, I say; 

'Tis n't fit to let fly at a sparrow. 
There 's something that 's wrong in the shaft or the dart, 

For it flutters quite false to my aim ; 
'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, 

And the world really jests at my name. 

' I have straightened, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare, 

I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs ; 
'Tis feathered with ringlets ray mother might wear, 

And the barb gleams with light from young eyes ; 
But it falls without touching — I'll break it, I vow, 

For there 's Hymen beginning to pout; 
He 's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low 

That Zephyr might puff" it right out." 

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, 

Till Vulcan the weapon restored. 
' There, take it, young sir; try it now — if it fail, 

I will ask neither fee nor reward." 
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made ; 

The wounded and dead were unt- Id; 
But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, 

For the arrow was laden with gold. 



nature's GENTLEMAN. 

Whom do we dub as gentleman ? — the knave, the fool, the brute- 
If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a courtly suit ! 
The parchment scroll of titled line — the ribbon at the knee. 
Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree: 
But Nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born, 
And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn; 
She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half divine, 
And cries, exulting, "Who can make a gentleman like mine!" 



1837.] COOK. 685 

She may not, spend her common skill about the outward part, 
But showers her beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart; 
She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to illume — 
The sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom; 
Should fortune pour her welcome store and useful gold abound, 
He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round ; 
The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end designed, 
When held by Nature's gentleman — the good, the just, the kind. 

He turns not from the cheerless home where sorrow's offspring dwell; 
He'll greet the peasant in his hut — the culprit in his cell; 
He stays to hear the widow's plaint of deep and mourning love ; 
He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above : 
The orphan child — the friendless one — the luckless, or the poor, 
Will never meet his spurning frown, or leave his bolted door; 
His kindred circles all mankind — his country all the globe — 
An honest name his jewelled star, and truth his ermine robe. 

He wisely yields his passions up to reason's firm control ; 
His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul ; 
He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life. 
But will not love the revel scene, or heed the brawling strife. 
He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honeyed tongue ; 
He's social with the gray-haired one, and merry with the young; 
He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game, 
And shines as Nature's gentleman in everyplace the same. 

No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word, 
No studied attitude is seen, no palling nonsense heard ; 
He '11 suit his bearing to the hour — laugh, listen, learn, or teach ; 
With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candor in his speech : 
He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed : 
He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed : 
Justice and Mercy form his code — he puts his trust in Heaven ; 
His prayer is, " If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven !" 

Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are, 
Each shining in his hallowed sphere, as virtue's polar star ; 
Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark. 
Yet, yet some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark ; 
There are some spirits nobly just, unwarped by pelf or pride. 
Great in the calm, but greater still when dashed by adverse tide : 
They hold the rank no king can give — no station can disgrace ; 
Nature puts forth her gentlemen, and monarchs must give place. 



THE MOURNERS. 

King Death sped forth in his dreaded power, 

To make the most of his silent hour ; 

And the first he took was a white-rob'd girl. 

With the orange-bloom twin'd in each glossy curl ; 

The fond betroth'd hung o'er her bier, 

Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear ; 



686 COOK. [VIOTORI 



He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain, 

With frantic speech and burning brain ; 

" There 's no joy," said he, " now my dearest is gone ; 

Take, take me, Death ! for I cannot Uve on !" 

The Sire was robb'd of his eldest born. 

And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn ; 

Other scions were 'round, as good and fair, 

But none seem'd so bright as the deathless heir. 

"My hopes are crush'd," was the father's cry; 

" Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die !" 

The valued Friend was snatch'd away, 

Bound to another from childhood's day; 

And the one that was left exclaim'd in despair, 

"Oh, he sleeps in the tomb, let me follow him there!" 

A Mother was taken, whose constant love 
Had nestled her child like a fair young dove ; 
And the heart of that child to the mother had grown 
Like the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone ; 
Nor loud nor wild was the burst of woe. 
But the tide of anguish was strong below ; 
And the reft one turn'd from all that was light. 
From the flowers of day and the stars of night — 
Breathing where none might hear or see, 
"Where thou art, my mother 1 thy child would be!" 

Death smil'd as he heard each earnest word — 

" Nay, nay," said he, " be this work deferr'd ; 

m see thee again in a fleeting year, 

And if grief and devotion live on sincere, 

I promise thee then thou shalt share in the rest 

Of the being pluck'd from thy doting breast; 

Then if thou cravest the coffin and pall, 

As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall !" 

And Death fled — till Time on his rapid wing. 

Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king. 

But the Lover was ardently wooing again. 

Kneeling in serfdom and proud of his chain ; 

He had found an idol to adore, 

Rarer than that he had worshipp'd before ; 

His step was gay, his laugh was loud. 

As he led the way for the bridal crowd ; 

And his brow own'd not a moment's shade, 

Though he pass'd o'er the grave where his lost love laid : 

"Ha, ha!" cried Death, " 'tis passing clear 

That I am a guest not wanted here !" 

The Father was seen in his children's games 
Kissing their flush'd brows and blessing their names; 
And his eye grew bright as he mark'd the charms 
Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms ; 
His voice rang out in the merry noise. 
He was first in all their hopes and joys ; 



ORI^I 

I 



COOK. ^ 687 

He ruled their sports in the setting sun, 

Nor gave a thought to the missing one ! 

" Are ye ready 1" cried Death, as he raised his dart — 

"Nay, nay," shrieked the father, "in mercy depart!" 

Tlie Friend again was quaffing the bowl, 

Warmly pledging his faith and soul; 

His bosom cherish'd, with glowing pride, 

A stranger form that sat by his side ; 

His hand the hand of that stranger press'd, 

He prais'd his song, he echoed his jest ; 

And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate 

Made a blank of the name so prized of late : 

" See, see !" cried Death, as he hurried past, 

"How bravely the bonds of friendship last!" 

But the Orphan- Child — oh, where was she? 

With clasping hands and bending knee. 

All alone on the churchyard sod, 

Mingling the names of " Modier" and " God ;" 

Her dark and sunken eye was hid. 

Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid; 

Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill. 

Betraying the wound was unhealed still ; 

And her smother'd prayer was heard to crave 

A speedy home in the selfsame grave. 

Hers was the love all holy and strong, 

Hers was the sorrow fervent and long ; 

Hers was the spirit whose light was shed 

As an incense fire above the dead. 

Death linger'd there — and paus'd awhile, 

But she beckon'd him on with a welcoming smile : 

" There 's a solace," cried he, " for all others to find ; 

But a mother leaves no equal behind !" 

And the kindest blow death ever gave 

Laid the mourning child in its parent's grave. 



THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE. 

We gathered round the festive board, 

The crackling fagot blazed. 
But few would taste the wine that poured. 

Or join the song we raised. 
For there was now a glass unfilled — 

A favored place to spare ; 
All eyes were dull, all hearts were cbilled- 

The loved one was not there. 

No happy laugh was heard to ring, 
No form would lead the dance; 

A smothered sorrow seemed to fling 
A gloom in every glance. 



688 COOK. [VICTORIA 

The grave had closed upon a brow, 

The honest, bright, and fair ; 
We missed our mate, we mourned the blow — 

The loved one was not there. 



HOME IN THE HEART. 

Oh ! ask not a home in ^he mansions of pride, 

Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls; 
Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold, 

And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. 
But seek for a bosom all honest and true, 

Where love, once awakened, will never depart ; 
Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest. 

And you '11 find there 's no home like a home in the heart. 

Oh! link but one spirit that 's warmly sincere. 

That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care ; 
Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, 

And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. 
Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot, 

The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start, 
But a star never dim sheds a halo for him 

Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. 



HARVEST SONG. 

I love, I love to see 

Bright steel gleam through the land ; 
'Tis a goodly sight — but it must be 

In the reaper's tawny hand. 

The helmet and the spear 

Are twined with laurel wreath ; 

But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear, 
And blood-spots rest beneath. • 

I love to see the field 

That is moist with purple stain ; 
But not where bullet, sword, and shield, 

Lie strown with gory slain. 

No, no; 'tis when the sun 

Shoots down his cloudless beams. 

Till the rich and bursting juice-drops run 
On the vineyard earth it streams. 

My glowing heart beats high 

At the sight of shining gold ; 
But is not that which the miser's eye 

Delighteth to behold. 



1837.] WARREN. 689 

A brighter wealth by iar 

Than the deep mine's yellow vein 
Is seen around, in the fair hills crowned 

With sheaves of burnished grain. 

Look forth, ye toiling men ; 

Though little ye possess, 
Be glad that dearth is not on earth, 

To leave that little less. 

Let the song of praise be poured, 

In gratitude and joy, 
By the rich man with his garners stored, 

And the ragged gleaner boy. 

The feast that warfare gives 

Is not for one alone — 
'Tis shared by the ineanest slave that lives, 

And the tenant of a throne. 

Then glory to the steel 

That shines in the reaper's hand; 
And thanks to God, who has blessed the sod, 

And crowns the harvest land ! 



SAMUEL WARREN. 

Few, if any, writers of fiction of the present century hold a more pow- 
erful pen than Samuel Warren. In vivid painting of the passions, and in 
faithfully depicting scenes of modern life, his tales have enjoyed a very 
great and deserved popularity. Of his most celebrated work, " The Diary 
of a late Physician," an able critic^ remarks : "We know of no book m 
the English language so calculated to rivet the attention and awaken the 
purest and deepest sympathies of the heart as this book. The man who 
has not read these tales has yet to learn a lesson in the mysteries of human 
nature, and, though "Ten Thousand a Year" may, as a literary compo- 
sition, claim precedence, we think it lacks something— a very httle— of 
that truthful simplicity, that trusting and religious fervor, that refines^every 
sentiment, and hallows every aspiration inspired by the elder work." 

His last work is " Now and Then"—" a vindication, in beautiful prose, 
of the ways of God to man. A grander moral is not to be found than that 
which dwells on the reader's mind when the book is closed; conveyed, 
too, as it is, in language as masculine and eloquent as any the English 
tongue can furnish."^ 

» " Oxford and Cambridge Review " ' " London Times." 

59 • 



690 WARREN. [VICTORIA 



DEATH AT THE TOILET. 



"^ Tis no use talking to me, mother; I loill go to Mrs. P- 



party to-night, if I die for it — that's flat ! You know as well as 

I do that Lieutenant N is to be there, and he's going to leave 

town to-morrow — so up I go to dress." 

" Charlotte, why will you be so obstinate ? You know how 

poorly you have been all the week, and Dr. says late hours 

are the worst things in the world for you." 

^^ Pshaw, mother ! nonsense, nonsense." 

" Be persuaded for once, now, I beg ! Oh dear, dear, what a 
night it is too — it pours with rain, and blows a perfect hurricane ! 
You'll be wet and catch cold, rely on it. Come now, won't you 
stop and keep me company to-night ? That's a good girl !" 

^^ Some other night will do as well for that, you know ; for now 

ril go to Mrs. P 's, if it rains cats and dogs. So up — up — 

up I go !" 

Such were very nearly the words, and such the manner in which 

Miss J expressed her determination to act in defiance of her 

mother's wishes and entreaties. She was the only child of her 
widowed mother, and had but a few weeks before completed her 
twenty-sixth year, with yet no other prospect before her than bleak 
single-blessedness. A weaker, more frivolous and conceited creature 
never breathed — the torment of her amiable parent, the nuisance 
of her acquaintance. Though her mother's circumstances were 
very straitened, sufficing barely to enable them to maintain a foot- 
ing in what is called the middling genteel class of society, this 
young woman contrived, by some means or other, to gratify her 
penchant for dress, and gadded about here, there, and everywhere, 
the most showily dressed person in the neighborhood. Though 
far from being even pretty-faced, or having any pretensions to a 
good figure, for she both stooped and was skinny, she yet believed 
herself handsome ; and by a vulgar, flippant forwardness of de- 
meanor, especially when in mixed company, extorted such atten- 
tions as persuaded her that others thought so. 

For one or two years she had been an occasional patient of 
mine. The settled pallor, the sallowness of her complexion, con- 
jointly with other symptoms, evidenced the existence of a liver- 
complaint; and the last visits I had paid her were in consequence 
of frequent sensations of oppression and pain in the chest, which 
clearly indicated some organic disease of the heart. I saw enough 
to warrant me in warning her mother of the possibility of her 



1837.] WARREN. 691 

claugliter's sudden death from this cause, and the imminent peril 
to which she exposed herself by dancing, late hours, &c.; but 

Mrs. J-* ^s remonstrances, gentle and affectionate as they always 

were, were thrown away upon her headstrong daughter. 

It was striking eight by the church clock, when Miss J 

lit her chamber-candle by her mother's, and withdrew to her room 
to dress, soundly rating the servant-girl by the way for not having 
starched some article or other which she intended to have worn 
that evening. As her toilet was usually a long and laborious busi- 
ness, it did not occasion much surprise to her mother, who was 
sitting by the fire in their little parlor, reading some book of de- 
votion, that the church chimes announced the first quarter past 
nine o'clock without her daughter's making her appearance. The 
noise she had made overhead, in walking to and fro^to her drawers, 
dressing-table, &c., had ceased about half an hour ago, and her 
mother supposed she was then engaged at her glass, adjusting her 
hair, and preparing her complexion. 

^' >Yell, I wonder what can make Charlotte so very careful 

about her dress to-night V' exclaimed Mrs. J , removing her 

eyes from the book, and gazing thoughtfully at the fire — " Oh ! it 

must be because young Lieutenant N is to be there. Well, 

I was young myself once, and it's very excusable in Charlotte — ■ 
heigh-ho I" She heard the wind howling so dismally without, that 
she drew together the coals of her brisk fire, and was laying down 

the poker when the clock of church struck the second quarter 

after nine. 

"Why, what in the world can Charlotte be doing all this 
while V she again inquired. She listened — " I have not heard 
her moving for the last three quarters of an hour ! I'll call the 
maid and ask.''^ She rung the bell, and the servant appeared. 

" Betty, Miss J is not gone yet, is she ?" 

"No, ma'am," replied the girl, "I took up the curling-irons 
only about a quarter of an hour ago, as she had put one of her 
curls out ; and she said she should soon be ready. She's burst 
her new muslin dress behind, and that has put her into a way, 
ma'am." 

" Go up to her room then, Betty, and see if she wants anything; 
and tell her it's half-past nine o'clock," said Mrs. J . The ser- 
vant accordingly went up stairs, and knocked at the bedroom-door 
once, twice, thrice, but received no answer. There was a dead 
silence, except when the wind shook the window. Could Miss 

J have fallen asleep ? Oh, impossible ! She knocked again, 

but unsuccessfully as before. She became a little flustered, and, 
after a moment's pause, opened the door and entered. There was 



692 WARREN. [VICTORIA 

Miss J sitting at the glass. " Why, la, ma'am/' commenced 

Betty in a petulant tone, walking up to her, " here have I been 
knocking for these five minutes, and — " Betty staggered horror- 
struck to the bed, and uttering a loud shriek, alarmed Mrs. J , 

who instantly tottered up stairs, almost palsied with fright. Miss 
J was dead ! 

I was there within a few minutes, for my house was not more 
than two streets distant. It was a stormy night in March : and 
the desolate aspect of things without — deserted streets — the dreary 
howling of the wind, and the incessant pattering of the rain, con- 
tributed to cast a gloom over my mind, when connected with the 
intelligence of the awful event that had summoned me out, which 
was deepened into horror by the spectacle I was doomed to 

witness. On reaching the house, I found Mrs. J in violent 

hysterics, surrounded by several of her neighbors, who had been 
called in to her assistance. I repaired instantly to the scene of 
death, and beheld what I shall never forget. The room was occu- 
pied by a white-curtained bed. There was but one window, and 
before it was a table, on which stood a looking-glass hung with a 
little white drapery ; and the various paraphernalia of the toilet 
lay scattered about — pins, brooches, curling-papers, ribands, gloves, 
&c. An arm-chair was drawn to this table, and in it sat Miss 

J , stone dead. Her head rested upon her right hand, her 

elbow supported by the table ; while her left hung down by her 
side, grasping a pair of curling-irons. Each of her wrists was 
encircled by a showy gilt bracelet. She was dressed in a white 
muslin frock, with a little bordering of blonde. Her face was 
turned towards the glass, which, by the light of the expiring 
candle, reflected, with frightful fidelity, the clammy fixed features, 
daubed over with rouge and carmine — the fallen lower jaw, and 
the eyes directed "full into the glass with a cold, dull stare, that 
was appalling. On examining the countenance more narrowly, 
I thought I detected the traces of a smirk of conceit and self-com- 
placency, which not even the palsying touch of death could wholly 
obliterate. The hair of the corpse, all smooth and glossy, was 
curled with elaborate precision, and the skinny, sallow neck was 
encircled with a string of glistening pearls. The ghastly visage 
of death thus leering through the tinselry of fashion — " the vain 
show" of artificial joy — was a horrible mockery of the fooleries 
of life ! 

Indeed it was a most humiliating and shocking spectacle. Poor 
creature ! struck dead in the very act of sacrificing at the shrine 
of female vanity ! She must have been dead for some time, per- 
haps for twenty minutes or half an hour, when I arrived, for 



1837.] TUPPER. 693 

nearly all the ■ animal heat had deserted the body, which was 
rapidly stiffening. I attempted, but in vain, to draw a little blood 
from the arm. Two or three women present proceeded to remove 
the corpse to the bed for the purpose of laying it out. What 
strange passiveness ! No resistance offered to them while straight- 
ening the bent right arm, and binding the jaws together with a 

faded white riband which Miss J had destined for her waist 

that evening. 

On examination of the body we found that death had been 
occasioned by disease of the heart. Her life might have been pro- 
tracted, possibly for years, had she but taken my advice and that 
of her mother. I have seen many hundreds of corpses, as well 
in the calm composure of natural death as mangled and distorted 
by violence ; but never have I seen so startling a satire upon 
human vanity, so repulsive, unsightly, and loathsome a spectacle 
as a corpse dressed for a hall! 



MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, 1810 — 

This distinguished author — distinguished for the fine fancy, deep thought, 
and elevated moral tone of most of his writings — has recently' made us a 
visit. He came, not to be lionized, but to see our country, and exchange 
kindly words with those who had loved and honored, though unseen, the 
author of the " Proverbial Pliilosophy." 

He is the son of the eminent surgeon, Martin Tupper, F. R. S., of Lon- 
don, and was born in that city in 1810. He took his degree of B. A. at 
Christ Church, Oxford, and subsequently entered at Lincoln's Inn. In 
due time he was called to the bar, but never practised as a barrister. 

Mr. Tupper's first publication of any importance was the first series of 
" Proverbial Philosophy," which appeared in 1837: the second series fol- 
lowed in 1842. This work at once excited attention, and called forth the 
most favorable criticisms. His next work was " Geraldine, a sequel to 
Coleridge's Christabel, with other Poems," published in 1838. This was 
followed in 1839 by " A Modern Pyramid, to commemorate a Septuagint 
of Worthies," designed to furnish illustrations and descriptions of character 
of seventy of the most remarkable personages of sacred and profane history, 
ancient and modern. In 1840, appeared a pleasant volume of odds and ends, 
called " An Author's Mind." His next work was a moral novel, published 
in 1844, entitled "The Crock of Gold," designed to illustrate the Sixth 

» April, 1851. 
59* 



694 TUPPER. [VICTORIA 

Commandment, as well as to show the curse and hardening effects of ava- 
rice. It is a tale beautifully told, and one of great interest and attraction. 
The principal characters of the story are honest Roger Acton, the luckless 
finder of the "Crock of Gold;" his pure and simple-hearted daughter 
Grace, her lover Jonathan, Simon Jennings the murderer, his aunt Bridget 
Quarles the murdered one, and Ben Burke the poacher. 

The same year (1844) Mr. Tupper published two other works of fiction, 
in one volume each, namely : " Heart, a social Novel," and " The Twins, 
a domestic Novel" — both highly subservient to the cause of sound morals, 
and depicting virtue and vice in their appropriate colors. His next work, 
published in 1845, is entitled "A Thousand Lines," a little tract of but 
sixty pages, containing poems on various subjects, written in his most cap- 
tivating manner. 

Mr. Tupper is most known by his " Proverbial Philosophy," and a book 
more replete with sound practical wisdom is hardly to be found, though it 
must be confessed the style of it is in some parts rather inflated. His prose 
works are also eminently instructive. Of these, the " Crock of Gold" has 
been most widely read, and generally admired ; for, as a tale of intense 
interest and clear moral point, it is scarcely exceeded. The following is 
the simple account of its origin: — 

" Some years ago he purchased a house at Brighton. While laying out 
the garden, he had occasion to have several drains made. One day, observ- 
ing a workman, Francis Suter, standing in one of the trenches, wet and 
wearied with toil, Mr. Tupper said to him in a tone of pleasantry, ' Would 
you not like to dig up there a crock full of gold V ' If I did,' said the man, 
' it would do me no good, because merely finding it might not make ii mine.' 
' But, suppose you could not only find such a treasure, but honestly keep 
it, would you not think yourself lucky ?' ' Oh yes, sir, I suppose I should 
— but,' after a considerable pause, 'but, I am not so sure, sir, after all, that 
that is the best thing that could happen to me. I think on the whole I would 
rather have steady work and fair wages all the season than to find a crock 
of gold I' Here was wisdom. The remark of the honest trench -digger 
at once set in motion a train of thought in the mind of the author. He en- 
tered his study — wrote in large letters on a sheet of paper these words, 
' The Crock of Gold, a tale of Covet ous?iess' — and in less than a week this 
remarkable story was finished." With such simple threads does genius 
elaborate the richest and most gorgeous tapestry.^ 

* An «' authorized edition," at once beautiful and complete, of Mr. Tapper's 
works, has just been publislaed by Messrs. E. H. Butler & Co., of Philadelphia, 
in four volumes. Volume I. contains " The Crock of Gold" — " The Twins" 
— "Heart." Volume II. "An Author's Mind" — "Miscellanies" — "Proba- 
bilities." Volume III. " Ballads"—" Poems"—" Geraldine"— " The Metres 
of King Alfred." Volume IV. " Proverbial Philosophy" — "A Modern Pyra- 
mid," &c. These books should be in every household library. 



1837.] TUPPER. 695 



OF COMPENSATION. 

Equal is tlie government of heaven in allotting pleasures among men, 

And just the everlasting law that hath wedded happiness to virtue : 

For verily on all things else broodeth disappointment with care, 

That childish man may be taught the shallowness of earthly enjoyment. 

Wherefore, ye that have enough, envy ye the rich man his abundance? 

Wherefore, daughters of affluence, covet ye the cottager's content 1 

Take the good with the evil, for ye all are pensioners of God, 

And none may choose or refuse the cup His wisdom mixeth. 

The poor man rejoiceth at his toil, and his daily bread is sweet to him : 

Content with present good, he looketh not for evil to the future : 

The rich man languisheth with sloth, and findeth pleasure in nothing. 

He locketh up with care his gold, and feareth the fickleness of fortune. 

Can a cup contain within itself the measure of a bucket ? 

Or the straitened appetites of man drink more than their fill of luxury 1 

There is a limit to enjoyment, though the sources of wealth be boundless : 

And the choicest pleasures of life lie within the ring of moderation. 

Also, though penury and pain be real and bitter evils, 

I would reason with the poor afflicted, for he is not so wretched as he 

seemeth. 
What right hath an offender to complain, though others escape punishment, 
If the stripes of earned misfortune overtake him in his sin ? 
Wherefore not endure with resignation the evils thou canst not avert? 
For the coward pain will flee, if thou meet him as a man. 
Consider whatever be thy fate, that it might and ought to have been worse, 
And that it lieth in thy hand to gather even blessing from afflictions: 
Bethink thee, wherefore were they sent ? and hath not use blunted their 

keenness ? 
Need hope, and patience, and courage, be strangers to the meanest hovel 1 
Thou art in an evil case — it were cruel to deny to thee compassion. 
But there is not unmitigated ill in the sharpest of this world's sorrows: 
I touch not the sore of thy guilt; but of human griefs I counsel thee. 
Cast off the weakness of regret, and gird thee to redeem thy loss : 
Thou hast gained, in the furnace of affliction, self-knowledge, patience, and 

humility, 
And these be as precious ore, that waiteth the skill of the coiner : 
Despise not the blessings of adversity, nor the gain thou hast earned so 

hardly. 
And now thou hast drained the bitter, take heed that thou lose not the 

sweet. 

Power is seldom innocent, and envy is the yoke-fellow of eminence ; 

And the rust of the miser's riches wasteth his soul as a canker. 

The poor man counteth not the cost at which such wealth hath been pur- 
chased ; 

He would be on the mountain's top without the toil and travail of the 
climbing. 

But equity demandeth recompense; for high-place, calumny and care; 

For state, comfortless splendor eating out the heart of home; 



696 TUPPER. [VICTORIA 

For warrior-fame, clangers and death ; for a name among the learned, a 

spirit overstrained ; 
For honor of all kinds, the goad of ambition ; on every acquirement the 

tax of anxiety. 
He that would change with another, must take the cup as it is mixed: 
Poverty, with largeness of heart: or a full purse, with a sordid spirit; 
Wisdom, in an aiUng body; or a common mind with health; 
Godliness, with man's scorn; or the welcome of the mighty, with guilt; 
Beauty, with a fickle heart; or plainness of face, with affection. 
For so hath Providence determined, that a man shall not easily discover 
Unmingled good or evil, to quicken his envy or abhorrence. 
A bold man or a fool must he be who would change his lot with another ; 
It were a fearful bargain, and mercy hath lovingly refused it ; 
For we know the worst of ourselves, but the secrets of another we see not; 
And better is certain bad, than the doubt and dread of worse. 

Just, and strong, and opportune is the moral rule of God. 

Ripe in its times, firm in its judgments, equal in the measure of its gifts : 

Yet men, scanning the surface, count the wicked happy, 

Nor heed the compensating peace, which gladdeneth the good in his afflictions: 

They see not the frightful dreams that crowd a bad man's pillow, 

Like wreathed adders crawling round his midnight conscience; 

They hear not the terrible suggestions that knock at the portal of his will, 

Provoking to wipe away from life the one weak witness of the deed ; 

They know not the torturing suspicions that sting his panting breast, 

When the clear eye of penetration quietly readeth off the truth. 

Likewise of the good what know they ? the memories bringing pleasure, 

Shrined in the heart of the benevolent, and glistening from his eye; 

The calm self-justifying reason that estabUsheth the upright in his purpose; 

The warm and gushing bliss that floodeth all the thoughts of the religious. 

Many a beggar at the cross-way, or gray-haired shepherd on the plain. 

Hath more of the end of all wealth than hundreds who multiply the means. 



FORGIVE AND FORGET. 

When streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall. 

Bubble up from the heart to the tongue, 
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall, 

By the hands of Ingratitude wrung — 
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair, 

While the anguish is festering yet, 
None, none but an angel or God can declare 

" I now can forgive and forget." 

But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart, 

And the lips are in penitence steep'd, 
With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart, 

Though scorn on injustice were heap'd; 
For the best compensation is paid for all ill, 

When the cheek with contrition is wet, 
And every one feels it is possible still 

At once to forgive and forget. 



TUPPER. 

To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind, 

However his heart may forgive, 
To blot out all insults and evils behind, 

And but for the future to live : 
Then how shall it hel for at every turn 

Recollection the spirit will fret, 
And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn, 

Though we strive to forgive and forget. 

Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal, 

And mind shall be partner with heart. 
While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal. 

And show thee how evil thou art : 
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and— thy crimes, 

How vast is that infinite debt! 
Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times 

Been swift to forgive and forget ! 

Brood not on insults or injuries old, 

For thou art injurious too — 
Count not their sum till the total is told, 

For thou art unkind and untrue : 
And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven. 

Now mercy with justice is met ; 
Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaveft. 

Nor learn to forgive and forget 1 

Yes, yes ; let a man, when his enemy weeps. 

Be quick to receive him a friend ; 
For thus on his head in kindness he heaps 

Hot coals — to refine and amend ; 
And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn, 

As a nurse on her innocent pet. 
Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn 

And whisper. Forgive and forget. 



BYGONES. 

■ Let bygones be bygones"— they foolishly say, 

And bid me be wise and forget them ; 
But old recollections are active to-day, 

And I can do naught but regret them: 
Though the present be pleasant, all joyous and gay. 

And promising well for the morrow, 
I love to look back on the years past away, 

Embalming my bygones in sorrow. 

If the morning of life has a mantle of gray. 
Its noon will be blither and brighter ; 

If March has its storm, there is sunshine in May, 
And light out of darkness is lighter: 



697 



698 TUPPER. [VICTORIA 

Thus the present is pleasant, a cheerful to-day, 

With a wiser, a soberer gladness. 
Because it is tinged with the mellowing ray 

Of a yesterday's sunset of sadness. 

"In the following sonnet," remarks the able and accomplished poet-editor 
of the "New York Evening Post," "suggested by his recent visit to Nia- 
gara, the author of 'Proverbial Philosophy' is in the right, so far at least 
as it regards the impression first made on the beholder of the great cataract. 
The sense of beauty overpowers that of majesty. The green, transparent 
waters, sliding smoothly over the huge precipice, and becoming snowy 
sheets of foam as they descend; the milky tide of the river as it floats away 
from the bottom of the falls ; the soft mists that half veil the cataract, with 
rainbows glittering among them; the pastoral amenity ot the shores, with 
the charming islands on the edge of the precipice, and the swiftly rushing 
streams that flow between them, form altogether a scene which delights 
rather than overawes. It is only after long contemplation of Niagara that 
the mind opens to the idea of its vastness and grandeur." 



NIAGARA — A SONNET. 

I longed for Andes all around, and Alps, 

Hoar kings and priests of Nature, robed in snow, 

Throned as for judgment in a solemn row, 
With icy mitres on their granite scalps. 

Dumb giants, frowning at the strife below — 
I longed for The Sublime ! 

Thou art too fair, 

Too fair, Niagara, to be sublime ; 

In calm slow strength thy mighty floods o'erflow, 
And stand a clifl' of cataracts in the air — 

Yet, all too beauteous. Water-bride of Time, 
Veiled in soft mists, and cinctured by the bow. 

Thy pastoral charms may fascinate the sight, 
But have not force to set my soul aglow, 

Raptured by fear, and wonder, and delight. 



THE TRIAL. 

The trial now came on, and Roger Acton stood arraigned of 
robbery and murder. I must hasten over lengthy legal technical- 
ities, which would only serve to swell this volume, without add- 
ing one iota to its interest or usefulness. The case was clear as 
light against poor Acton. No alibi — he lived upon the spot. 
No witnesses to character; for Roger's late excesses had wiped 



1837.] TUPPER. ' 699 

away all former good report : kind Mr. Evans himself, with tears 
in his eyes, acknowledged sadly that Acton had once been a regu- 
lar church-goer, a frequent communicant; but had fallen off of 
late, poor fellow ! And then, in spite of protestations to the con- 
trary, behold! the coijms deUcti — that unlucky crock of gold 
actually in the man's possession, and the fragment of shawl — was 
not that sufficient? * * * 

So, when the judge summed up, and clearly could neither find 
nor make a loophole for the prisoner, the matter seemed accom- 
plished; all knew what the verdict must be — poor Itoger Acton 
had not the shadow of a chance. 

Then, while the jury were consulting — they would not leave 
the box, it seemed so clear — Koger broke the deathlike silence; 
and he said : — 

^' Judge, I crave your worship's leave to speak: and hearken 
to me, countrymen. Many evil things have I done in my time, 
both against God and my neighbor : I am ashamed, as well I 
may be, when I think on 'em : I have sworn, and drunk, and 
lied ; I have murmured loudly — coveted wickedly — ay, and once 
I stole. It was a little theft, I lost it on the spot, and never stole 
again; pray God, I never may. Nevertheless, countrymen, and 
sinful though I be in the sight of Him who made us; according 
to man's judgment and man's innocency, I have lived among you 
all blameless, until I found that crock of gold. I did find it, 
countrymen, as God is my witness, and, therefore, though a sinner, 
I appeal to Him : He knoweth that I found it in the sedge that 
skirts my garden, at the end of my own celery trench. I did 
wickedly and foolishly to hide my find, worse to deny it, and worst 
of all to spend it in the low, lewd way I did. But of robbery I 
am guiltless as you are. And as to this black charge of murder, 
till Simon Jennings spoke the word I never knew it had been 
done. Folk of Hurstley, friends and neighbors, you all know 
Eoger Acton — the old-time, honest lioger of these forty years, 
before the devil made him mad by giving him much gold — did 
he ever maliciously do harm to man or woman, to child or poor 
dumb brute ? No, countrymen, I am no murderer. That the 
seemings are against me, I wot well; they may excuse your judg- 
ment in condemning me to death — andl and the good gentleman 
there who took my part (Heaven bless you, sir !) cannot go against 
the facts : but they speak falsely, and I truly ; Roger Acton is an 
innocent man : may God defend the right !" 

"Amen!" earnestly whispered a tremulous female voice, "and 
God will save you, father." 

The court was still as death, except for sobbing; the jury 



700 TUPPER. [VICTORIA 

were doubting and confounded; in vain Mr. Jennings, looking at 
the foreman, shook his head and stroked his chin in an incredu- 
lous and knowing manner ; clearly they must retire, not at all 
agreed; and the judge himself, that masqued man in flowing wig 
and ermine, but still warmed by human sympathies, struck a 
tear from his wrinkled cheek; and all seemed to be involuntarily 
waiting (for the jury, though unable to decide, had not yet left 
their box) to see whether any sudden miracle would happen to 
save a man whom evidence made so guilty, and yet he bore upon 
his open brow the genuine signature of innocence. 

"Silence, there, silence! you can't get in; there's no room 
for'ards!" but a couple of javelin-men at the door were knocked 
down right and left, and through the dense and suffocating crowd, 
a big, black-whiskered fellow, elbowing his way against their faces, 
spite of all obstructions, struggled to the front behind the bar. 
Then, breathless with gigantic exertion (it was like a mammoth 
treading down the cedars), he roared out, 

"Judge, swear me, I'm a witness; huzza! it's not too late." 

And the irreverent gentleman tossed a fur cap right up to the 
skylight. 

Mr. Grantly brightened up at once, Grace looked happily to 
heaven, and Roger Acton shouted out, 

"Thank God! thank God!— there 's Ben Burke !" 

Yes, he had heard miles away of his friend's danger about an 
old shawl and a honey-pot full of gold, and he had made all 
speed, with Tom in his train, to come and bear witness to the 
innocence of Roger. The sensation in court, as may be well 
conceived, was thrilling; but a vociferous crier, and the deep 
anxiety to hear this sturdy witness, soon reduced all again to 
silence. 

Then did they swear Benjamin Burke, who, to the scandal of 
his cause, would insist upon stating his profession to be "poacher;" 
and at first, poor simple fellow, seemed to have a notion that a 
sworn witness meant one who swore continually; but he was soon 
convinced otherwise, and his whole demeanor gradually became as 
polite and deferent as his coarse nature would allow. And Ben 
told his adventure on Pike Island, as we have heard him tell it, 
pretty much in the same words; for the judge and Mr. Grantly 
let him take his own courses; and then he added (with a charac- 
teristic expletive, which we may as well omit, seeing it occasioned 
a cry of ''order" in the court), "There, if that there white-livered 
little villain warn't the chap that brought the crocks, my name 
an't Ben Burke." 

"Good Heavens! Mr. Jennings, what's the matter?" said a 



1837.] TUPPER. 701 

briefless one, starting up : this was Mr. Sharp, a personage on 
former occasions distinguished highly as a thieves' advocate, but 
now, unfortunately, out of work. *' Loosen his cravat some one 
there; the gentleman is in fits." 

''Oh, aunt, aunt Quarles, don't throttle me; I'll tell all, all; 
let go, let go!" and the wretched man slowly recovered, as Ben 
Burke said, 

'' Ay, my Lord, ask him yourself; the little wretch can tell you 
all about it." 

"I submit, my lurd," interposed the briefless one, ^'that this 
respectable gentleman is taken ill, and that his presence may now 
be dispensed with as a witness in the cause." 

"No, sir, no," deliberately answered Jennings; "I must stay: 
the time I find is come: I have not slept for weeks; I am ex- 
hausted utterly; I have lost my gold; I am haunted by her 
ghost : I can go nowhere but that face follows me — I can do 
nothing but her fingers clutch my throat. It is time to end this 
misery. In hope to lay her spirit, I would have ofi'ered up a 
victim : but — but she will not have him. Mine was the hand 
that — " 

"Pardon me," up started Mr. Sharp, "this poor gentleman is a 
monomaniac; pray, my lurd, let him be removed while the trial 
is proceeding." 

" You horsehair hypocrite, you !" roared Ben, " would you hang 
the innocent, and save the guilty?" 

Would he? would Mr. Philip Sharp? Ay, that he would; 
and glad of such a famous opportunity. What ! would not New- 
gate rejoice, and Horsemonger be glad? Would not his bag be 
filled with briefs from the community of burglars, and his purse 
be rich in gold subscribed by the brotherhood of thieves ? Great 
at once would be his name among the purlieus of iniquity; and 
every rogue in London would retain but Philip Sharp. Would 
he? ask him again. 

But Jennings quietly proceeded like a speaking statue. 

"I am not mad, most noble — " [the Bible-read villain was 
from habit quoting Paul] — "my lord, I mean. My hand did the 
deed : I throttled her :" (here he gave a scared look over his 
shoulder:) "yes — I did it once and again : I took the crock of 
gold. You may hang me now. Aunt Quarles." 

"My lurd, my lurd, this is a most irregular proceeding," 
urged Mr. Sharp; "on the part of the prisoner — I, I crave 
pardon — on behalf of this most respectable and deluded gentle- 
man, Mr. Simon Jennings, I contend that no one may criminate 
60 



702 TUPPER. [VICTORIA 

himself in this way, without the shadow of evidence to support 
such suicidal testimony. Really, my lurd — " 

"Oh, sir, but my father may go free?^^ earnestly asked Grace: 
but Ben Burke's voice — I had almost written woice — overwhelmed 
them all : — 

"Let me speak, judge, an^t please your honor, and take you 
notice. Master Horsehair. You want ewidence, do you, beyond 
the man's confession : here, I'll give it to you. Look at this here 
wice :" and he stretched forth his well-known huge and horny 
hand: 

"When I caught that dridful little reptil by the arm, he 
wriggled like a sniggled eel, so I was forced, you see, to grasp 
him something tighter, and could feel his little arm-bones crack 
like any chicken's : now, then, if his left elbow a^n't black and 
blue, though it's a month agone and more, TU eat it. Strip him 
and see.'^ 

No need to struggle with the man, or tear his coat off. Jen- 
nings appeared only too glad to find that there was other evidence 
than his own foul tongue, and that he might be hung at last with- 
out sacking-rope or gimlet; so, he quietly bared his arm, and the 
elbow looked all manner of colors — a mass of old bruises. 

The whole court trembled with excitement : it was deep, still 
silence; and the judge said, 

"Prisoner at the bar, there is now no evidence against you: 
gentlemen of the jury, of course you will acquit him.^^ 

The foreman: "All agreed, my lord, not guilty.^' 

"Roger Acton,'^ said the judge, "to Grod alone you owe this 
marvellous, almost miraculous interposition : you have had many 
wrongs innocently to endure, and I trust that the right feelings 
of society will requite you for them in this world, as, if you serve 
ITim, God will in the next. You are honorably acquitted, and 
may leave this bar.'' 

In vain the crier shouted, in vain the javelin-men helped the 
crier, the court was in a tumult of joy; Grace sprang to her 
father's neck, and Sir John Vincent, who had been in attendance 
sitting near the judge all the trial through, came down to him, and 
shook his hand warmly. 

Roger's eyes ran over, and he could only utter, 

"Thank God! thank God! He does better for me than I 
deserved." But the court was hushed at last: the jury re-sworn; 
certain legal forms and technicalities speedily attended to, as counts 
of indictment, and so forth: and the judge then quietly said, 

" Simon Jennings, stand at that bar." 

He stood there like an imoge. 



1837.] TUPPER. 703 

"My lurcl/ 1 claim to be prisoner's counsel." 

"Mr. Sharp — the prisoner shall have pron^ assistance by all 
means ; but I do not see how it will help yo'^pase, if you cannot 
get your client to plead not guilty.'' 

While Mr. Philip Sharp converses earnestly with the criminal 
in confidential whispers, I will entertain the sagacious reader with 
a few admirable lines I have just cut out of a newspaper: they 
are headed 

^^Suppression of Truth, and Exclusion of Evidence. 

" Lawyers abhor any short cut to the truth. The pursuit is the 
thing for their pleasure and profit^ and all their rules are framed 
for making the most of it. 

" Crime is to them precisely what the fox is to the sportsman : 
and the object is not to pounce on it and capture it at once, but 
to have a good run for it, and to exhibit skill and address in the 
chase. Whether the culprit or the fox escape or not, is a matter 
of indifference, the run being the main thing. 

"The punishment of crime is as foreign to the object of law- 
yers as the extirpation of the fox is to that of sportsmen. The 
sportsman, because he hunts the fox, sees in the summary destruc- 
tion of the fox by the hand of a clown, an offence foul, strange, 
and unnatural, little short of murder. The lawyer treats crime 
in the same way: his business is the chase of it; but, that it may 
exist for the chase, he lays down rules protecting it against surprises 
and capture by any methods but those of the forensic field. 

" Confession is the thing most hateful to law, for this stops its 
sport at the outset. It is the surrender of the fox to the hounds. 
^We don't want your stinking body,' says the lawyer; 'we want 
the run after the scent. Away with you, be off; retract your 
admission, take the benefit of telling a lie, give us employment, 
and let us take our chance of hunting out, in our roundabout 
ways, the truth, which we will not take when it lies before us.' " 

" Silence, silence I" shouted the indignant crier, and the eyes 
of all now concentred on the miserable criminal; for the time, 
everything else seemed forgotten. The judge broke the awful 
silence, saying: — 

" Prisoner at the bar, you are convicted, on your own confession, 
as well as upon other evidence, of crimes too horrible to speak of. 
The deliberate repetition of that fearful murder classes you among 
the worst of wretches whom it has been my duty to condemn; and 
when to this is added your perjured accusation of an innocent 
man, whom nothing but a miracle has rescued, your guilt becomes 



704 TUPPER. [victoria 

appalling, too hideous for human contemplation. Miserable man, 
prepare for death, and after that the judgment; yet, even for you, 
if you repent, th|pB may be pardon; it is my privilege to tell 
even you that life and hope are never to be separated, so long as 
Ood is merciful, or man may be contrite. The sacrifice of Him 
who died for us all, for you, poor fellow-creature [here the good 
judge wept for a minute like a child], for you, no less than for 
me, is available even to the chief of sinners. It is my duty and 
my comfort to direct your blood-stained but immortal soul eagerly 
to fly to that only refuge from eternal misery. As to this world, 
your career of wickedness is at an end : covetousness has con- 
ceived, and generated murder; and murder has even overstept its 
common bounds, to repeat the terrible crime, and then to throw 
its guilt upon the innocent. Entertain no hope whatever of a 
respite ; mercy in your case would be sin. 

"The sentence of the court is that you, Simon Jennings, be 
taken from that bar to the county jail, and thence on this day 
fortnight be conveyed to the place of execution within the prison, 
and there by the hands of the common hangman be hanged by 
the neck '^ 

At the word "neck," in the slow and solemn enunciation of the 
judge, issued a terrific scream from the mouth of Simon Jennings : 
was he mad after all — mad indeed ? or was he being strangled by 
some unseen executioner ? Look at him, convulsively doing battle 
with an invisible foe ! his eyes start, his face gets bluer and bluer, 
his hands, fixed like griffin's talons, clutch at vacancy — he wrestles^ 
struggles, falls! 

All was now confusion : even the grave judge, who had neces- 
sarily stopped at that frightful interruption, leaned eagerly over 
his desk, while barristers and sergeants learned in the law crowded 
round the prisoner : "He is dying ! air, there, air ! a glass of water, 
some one I" 

About a thimblefull of water, after fifty spillings, arrived safely 
in a tumbler; but as for air, no one in that court had breathed 
anything but nitrogen for four hours. 

He was dying: and three several doctors, hoisted over the 
heads of an admiring multitude, rushed to his relief with thirsty 
lancets : apoplexy, oh, of course, apoplexy : and they nodded to 
each other confidentially. 

Yes, he was dying: they might not move him now: he must 
die in his sins, at that dread season, upon that dread spot. Per- 
jury, robbery, and murder, all had fastened on his soul, and were 
feeding there like harpies at a Strophadian feast, or vultures 
ravening on the liver of Prometheus. Guilt, vengeance, death, 



1837.] JAMESON. 705 

had got hold of him and rent him, as wild horses tearing him 
asunder different ways; he lay there gurgling, strangling, gasp- 
ing, panting : none could help him, none could give him ease : 
he was going on the dark dull path in the bottom of that awful 
valley, where Death's cold shadow overclouds it like a canopy; 
he was sinking in that deep black water, that must some day drown 
us all — pray Heaven, with hope to cheer us then, and comfort in 
the fierce extremity ! — His eye filmed, his lower jaw relaxed, his 
head dropped back, he was dying, dying, dying — 

On a sudden he rallied ! his blood had rushed back again from 
head to heart, and all the doctors were deceived ; again he battled 
and fought, and wrestled, and flung them from him ; again he 
howled, and his eyes glared lightning: — mad? — Yes, mad! stark 
mad ! quick, quick, we cannot hold him ; save yourselves there ! 

But he only broke away from them to stand up free; then he 
gave one scream, leaped high into the air, and fell down dead in 
the dock, with a crimson stream of blood issuing from his mouth. 

From the '■'■Crock of Gold.''' 



MRS. JAMESON. 

No work pretending to give an account of the prominent English authors 
of the nineteenth century would be complete without the name of this 
charming and instructive writer. ^ Accident, she says, made her an author, 
and she thus expounds some of her aims in continuing to write. " It is not 
by exposing folly and scorning fools that we make other people wiser or 
ourselves happier. But to soften the heart by images and examples of the 
kindly and generous affections — to show how the human soul is disciplined 
and perfected by suffering — to prove how much of possible good may exist in 
things evil and perverted — how much hope there is for those who despair — 
how much comfort for those whom a heartless world has taught to con- 
temn both others and themselves, and to put barriers to the hard, cold, 
selfish, mocking, and levelling spirit of the day." 

This high and noble aim she has successfully carried out in many of her 

* I may add prolific too, for her mine of intellectual wealth seems to be in- 
exhaustible. The following are the chief woi'ks she has hitherto published : 
" Diary of an Ennuyee," '< Characteristics of Women," "Memoirs and Essays 
illustrative of Art, Literature, and Social Morals," "Memoirs of Female 
Sovereigns," "Loves of the Poets," "Hand-book to Public Picture Galleries 
in and near London," " History of the early Italian Painters," "Social Life 
in Germany," " Poetry of Sacred and Legendary Art," " Companion to Pri- 
vate Picture Galleries." 

GO* 



706 JAMESON. [VICTORIA 

works, but in none more than in that by which she is best known, " Cha- 
racteristics of Women, Moral, Poetical, and Historical." These are de- 
signed to illustrate the Female Characters of Shakspeare, and never did 
commentator catch more perfectly the spirit of an author, or convey to the 
reader a more exact or a more vivid impression of his genius and scope. 
It is more than interesting ; it is bewitching, for, take it up where you will, 
you will not find it easy to lay it down. " The secret of this excellence of 
Mrs. Jameson's book we take to be the fact that it is a woman, a very 
woman, who undertakes the task — none so well able as those to approve 
or condemn, as one who, being of a like nature, has in herself had the 
same feelings excited in her own heart during her life — who as lover, 
wife, mother, and friend, has in turn acted all these parts in real history, 
and has not gone to other commentators for her criticism."^ 

In her "Essays," Mrs. Jameson has an admirable chapter on our own 
countryman, Washington AUston, whose peculiar genius and power she 
well appreciates; for, an artist herself, she can enter into an artist's hopes 
and fears, his disappointments and his triumphs. In her chapter, in the 
same book, entitled, " Woman's Mission, and Woman's Position," she 
takes a plain, practical, common- sense view of that hackneyed theme on 
which so much nonsense has been spoken and written. In short, in most 
of her works, she aims to be practical — " to bring the flowers of art and 
genius to glorify our common household lives, and render them more sweet 
by the beatification." 



PORTIA. 

Portia is endued with her own share of those delightful quali- 
ties which Shakspeare has lavished on many of his female charac- 
ters ; but, besides the dignity, the sweetness, and tenderness which 
should distinguish her sex generally, she is individualized by 
qualities peculiar to herself : by her hi.^h mental powers, her en- 
thusiasm of temperament, her decision of purpose, and her buoy- 
ancy of spirit. These are innate : she has other distinguishing 
qualities more external, and which are the result of the circum- 
stances in which she is placed. Thus she is the heiress of a 
princely name and countless wealth ; a train of obedient pleasures 
have ever waited round her ; and from infancy she has breathed 
an atmosphere redolent of perfume and blandishment. Accord- 
ingly there is a commanding grace, a high-bred, airy elegance, a 
spirit of magnificence in all that she does and says, as one to whom 
splendor had been familiar from her very birth. She treads as 
though her footsteps had been among marble palaces, beneath 
roofs of fretted gold, o'er cedar floors and pavements of jasper 

' Powell's " Living Authors of England." 



1837.] JAMESON. 707 

and porphyry-^amid gardens full of statues, and flowerS; and 
fountains, and haunting music. She is full of penetrative wisdom, 
and genuine tenderness, and lively wit; but, as she has never 
known want, or grief, or fear, or disappointment, her wisdom is 
without a touch of the sombre or the sad • her affections are all 
mixed up with faith, hope, and joy ; and her wit has not a parti- 
cle of malevolence or causticity. 

But all the finest parts of Portia's character are brought to bear 
in the trial scene. There she shines forth all her divine self. 
Her intellectual powers, her elevated sense of religion, her high 
honorable principles, her best feelings as a woman are all dis- 
played. She maintains at first a calm self-command, as one sure 
of carrying her point in the end ; yet the painful, heart-thrilling 
uncertainty in which she keeps the whole court, until suspense 
verges upon agony, is not contrived for effect merely; it is neces- 
sary and inevitable. She has two objects in view ; to deliver her 
husband's friend, and to maintain her husband's honor by the dis- 
charge of his just debt, though paid out of her own wealth ten 
times over. It is evident that she would rather owe the safety of 
Antonio to anything rather than the legal quibble with which 
her cousin Bellario has armed her, and which she reserves as a 
last resource. Thus all the speeches addressed to Shylock in the 
first instance, are either direct or indirect experiments on his 
temper and feelings. She must be understood from the beginning 
to the end, as examining with intense anxiety the effect of her own 
words on his mind and countenance; as watching for that relent- 
ing spirit, which she hopes to awaken either by reason or per- 
suasion. She begins by an appeal to his mercy, in that matchless 
piece of eloquence which, with an irresistible and solemn pathos, 
falls upon the heart like " gentle dew from heaven :" but in vain; 
for that blessed dew drops not more fruitless and unfelt on the 
parched sand of the desert than do these heavenly words upon 
the ear of Shylock. She next attacks his avarice : — 

Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee ! 

Then she appeals, in the same breath, both to his avarice and his 
pity :-^ 

Be mercifLil ! 
Take thrice thy money. Bid me tear the bond. 

All that she says afterwards — her strong expressions, which are 
calculated to strike a shuddering horror through the nerves — the 
reflections she interposes — her delays and circumlocution, to give 
time for any latent feeling of commiseration to display itself — 



708 JAMESON. [VICTORIA 

all, all are premeditated, and tend in tlie same manner to the 
object she has in view. Thus — 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 
Therefore lay bare your bosom ! 

These two speeches, though addressed apparently to Antonio, are 
spoken at Shylock, and are evidently intended to penetrate his 
bosom. In the same spirit she asks for the balance to weigh 
the pound of flesh ; and entreats of Shylock to have a surgeon 
ready : — 

Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death! 

Shylock. — Is it so nominated in the bond ? 
Portia. — It is not so expressed — but what of that "? 
'Twere good you do so much, for charity ! 

So unwilling is her sanguine and generous spirit to resign all 
hope, or to believe that humanity is absolutely extinct in the 
bosom of the Jew, that she calls on Antonio, as a last resource, 
to speak for himself. His gentle, yet manly resignation — the 
deep pathos of his farewell, and the affectionate allusion to her- 
self in his last address to Bassanio : — 

Commend me to your honorable wife ; 

Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death, &c. 

are well calculated to swell that emotion which, through the whole 
scene, must have been laboring suppressed within her heart. 

At length the crisis arrives, for patience and womanhood can 
endure no longer; and when Shylock, carrying his savage bent 
"to the last hour of act,^^ springs on his victim — '^A sentence ! 
come prepare !" then the smothered scorn, indignation, and dis- 
gust, burst forth with an impetuosity which interferes with the 
judicial solemnity she had at first affected; particularly in the 
speech — 

Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 

Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, 

But just the pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more. 

Or less, than a just pound — be it but so much 

As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 

Or the division of the twentieth part 

Of one poor scruple ; nay, if the scale do turn 

But in the estimation of a hair — 

Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

But she afterwards recovers her propriety, and triumphs with 
a cooler scorn and a more self-possessed exultation. 

It is clear that, to feel the full force and dramatic beauty of 



1837.] JAMESON. 709 

this marvellous scene, we must go along witli Portia as well as 
with Shylock ; we must understand her concealed purpose, keep 
in mind her noble motives, and pursue in our fancy the under- 
current of feeling working in her mind throughout. The terror 
and the power of Shylock's character — his deadly and inexorable 
malice — would be too oppressive, the pain and pity too intolera- 
ble, and the horror of the possible issue too overwhelming, but for 
the intellectual relief afforded by this double source of interest 
and contemplation. 

I come now to that capacity for warm and generous affection, 
that tenderness of heart which render Portia not less lovable as 
a woman than admirable for her mental endowments. What an 
exquisite stroke of judgment in the poet to make the mutual pas- 
sion of Portia and Bassanio, though unacknowledged to each other, 
anterior to the opening of the play ! Bassanio' s confession very 
properly comes first : — 

Bassanio. — In Belmont is a lady richly left, 

And she is fair and fairer than that word, 

Of wond'rous virtues ; sometimes from her eyes 

I did receive fair speechless messages ; 

and prepares us for Portia's half-betrayed, unconscious election 
of this most graceful and chivalrous admirer — 

Nerissa. — Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a 
scholar, and a soldier, that came hitlier in company of the Marquis of 
Montferrat ? 

Portia. — Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so he was called. 

Nerissa. — True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes 
looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 

Portia. — I remember him well ; and I remember him worthy of thy 
praise. 

Our interest is thus awakened for the lovers from the very first : 
and what shall be said of the casket scene with Bassanio, where 
every line which Portia speaks is so worthy of herself, so full of 
sentiment and beauty, and poetry and passion ? Too naturally 
frank for disguise, too modest to confess her depth of love while 
the issue of the trial remains in suspense — the conflict between 
love and fear, and maidenly dignity, causes the most delicious con- 
fusion that ever tinged a woman's cheek, or dropped in broken 
utterance from her lips. 

I pray you tarry ; pause a day or two. 

Before you hazard: for, in choosing wrong, 

I lose your company; therefore, forbear a while ; 

There's something tells me (but it is not love), 



710 JAMESON. [VICTORIA 

I would not lose you ; and you know yourself 
Hate counsels not in such a quality: 
But lest you should not understand me well, 
(And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought), 
I would detain you here some month or two, 
Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
How to choose aright — but then I am forsworn; 
So will I never be ; so you may miss me ; 
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, 
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, 
They have o'erlook'd me, and divided me ; 
One half of me is yours, the other half yours — 
Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours, 
And so all yours ! 

The short dialogue between the lovers is exquisite. 

Bassanio. Let me choose ; 

For, as I am, I live upon the rack. 
Portia. — Upon the rack, Bassanio 1 Then confess 

What treason there is mingled with your love. 
Bassanio. — None, but that ugly treason of mistrust. 

Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love ; 
There may as well be amity and life 
'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 
Portia. — Ay ! but I fear you speak upon the rack, 

Where men enforced do speak anything. 
Bassanio. — Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth. 
Portia. — Well, then, confess, and live. 
Bassanio. Confess and love 

Had been the very siun of my confession ! 

happy torment, when my torturer 

Doth teach me answers for deliverance ! 

A prominent feature in Portia's character is that confiding, 
buoyant spirit which mingles with all her thoughts and aiFections. 
And here let me observe, that I never yet met in real life, nor 
ever read in tale or history, of any woman, distinguished for in- 
tellect of the highest order, who was not also remarkable for this 
trustingness of spirit, this hopefulness and cheerfulness of temper, 
which is compatible with the most serious habits of thought, and 
the most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley Montagu was one 
instance; and Madame de Stael furnishes another much more 
memorable. In her Corinne, whom she drew from herself, this 
natural brightness of temper is a prominent part of the character. 
A disposition to doubt, to suspect, and to despond, in the young, 
argues, in general, some inherent weakness, moral or physical, or 
gome miserable and radical error of education ; in the old, it is 
one of the first symptoms of age; it speaks of the influence of sor- 



1837.] JAMESON. 711 

row and experience, and foreshows the decay of the stronger and 
more generous powers of the soul. Portia's strength of intellect 
takes a natural tinge from the flush and bloom of her young and 
prosperous existence, and from her fervid imagination. In the 
casket-scene, she fears indeed the issue of the trial, on which 
more than her life is hazarded ; but while she trembles, her hope 
is stronger than her fear. While Bassanio is contemplating the 
caskets, she suifers herself to dwell for one moment on the possi- 
bility of disappointment and misery. 

Let music sound, while he doth make his choice; 
Then if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 
Fading in music : that the comparison 
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream 
And wat'ry death-bed for him. 

Then immediately follows that revulsion of feeling so beauti- 
fully characteristic of the hopeful, trusting, mounting spirit of this 
noble creature : — 

But he may win ! 
And what is music then? — then music is 
Even as the flourish, when true subjects bow 
To a new-croM^ned monarch ; such it is 
As are those dulcet sounds in break of day. 
That creep into the di;eaming bridegroom's ear. 
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes 
With no less presence, but with much more love 
Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 
To the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice. 

Here, not only the feeling itself, born of the elastic and san- 
guine spirit which had never been touched by grief; but the 
images in which it comes arrayed to her fancy — the bridegroom 
waked by music on his wedding morn — the new-crowned mon- 
arch — the comparison of Bassanio to the young Alcides, and of 
herself to the daughter of Laomedon — are all precisely what would 
have suggested themselves to the fine poetical imagination of 
Portia in such a moment. 

Pier passionate exclamations of delight, when Bassanio has fixed 
on the right casket, are as strong as though she had despaired be- 
fore. Fear and doubt she could repel; the native elasticity of her 
mind bore up against them; yet she makes us feel that, as the 
sudden joy overpowers her almost to fainting, the disappointment 
would as certainly have killed her. 

How all the other passions fleet to air, 

As doubtful thoughts, and rash embraced despair, 



712 JAMESON. [VICTORIA 

And shuddering fear, and green-ey'd jealousy ! 

love! be moderate, allay thy ecstasy; 
In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess: 

1 feel too much thy blessing; make it less, 
For fear I surfeit ! 

Her subsequent surrender of herself, in heart and soul, of her 
maiden freedom, and her vast possessions, can never be read with- 
out deep emotion ; for not only all the tenderness and delicacy of 
a devoted woman are here blended with all the dignity which 
becomes the princely heiress of Belmont, but the serious, measured 
self-possession of her address to her lover, when all suspense is 
over, and all concealment superfluous, is most beautifully con- 
sistent with the character. It is, in truth, an awful moment, that 
in which a gifted woman first discovers that, besides talents and 
powers, she has also passions and affections; when she first begins 
to suspect their vast importance in the sum of her existence; when 
she first confesses that her happiness is no longer in her own 
keeping, but is surrendered forever and forever into the dominion 
of another! The possession of uncommon powers of mind is 
so far from affording relief or resource in the first intoxicating sur- 
prise — I had almost said terror — of such a revolution, that they 
render it more intense. The sources of thought multiply beyond 
calculation the sources of feeling; and mingled, they rush together, 
a torrent deep as strong. Because Portia is endued with that 
enlarged comprehension, which looks before and after, she does 
not feel the less, but the more ; because from the height of her 
commanding intellect she can contemplate the force, the tendency, 
the consequences of her own sentiments — because she is fully sen- 
sible of her own situation, and the value of all she concede^ — the 
concession is not made with less entireness and devotion of heart, 
less confidence in the truth and worth of her lover, than when 
Juliet, in a similar moment, but without any such intrusive re- 
flections, any check but the instinctive delicacy of her sex, flings 
herself and her fortunes at the feet of her lover : — 

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, 

And follow thee, my lord, through all the world.^ 

In Portia's confession, which is not breathed from a moonlit 
balcony, but spoken openly in the presence of her attendants and 
vassals, there is nothing of the passionate self-abandonment of 
Juliet, nor of the artless simplicity of Miranda, but a conscious- 
ness and a tender seriousness, approaching to solemnity, which 
are not less touching. 

« '''Romeo and Juliet," Act ii. Scene 2. 



1837.] HOWiTT. 713 

You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 

Such as I am : though, for myself alone, 

I would not be ambitious in my wish. 

To wish myself much better; yet, for you, 

I would be trebled twenty times myself; 

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times 

More rich ; 

That only to stand high in your account, 

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends. 

Exceed account: but the full sum of me 

Is sum of something; which, to term in gross, 

Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd ; 

Happy in this, she is not yet so old 

But she may learn ; and happier than this, 

She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 

Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit 

Commits itself to yours to be directed. 

As from her lord, her governor, her king. 

Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours 

Is now converted. But now I was the lord 

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, 

Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now. 

This house, these servants, and this same myself 

Are yours, my lord. 



WILLIAM HOWITT. 

This writer has published the following works: " Pantica, or Tradi- 
tions of the most Ancient Times," two vols.; "The Boy's Country 
/ Book;" " The Rural Life of England," two vols. ; " The Student Life 
of Germany;" "A Popular History of Priestcraft in all Ages and Na- 
tions ;" " Colonization and Christianity ;" " Visits to Remarkable Places 
— Old Halls, Battle-fields, and Scenes illustrative of Striking Passages in 
English History and Poetry," first and second series; "The Rural and 
Domestic Life of Germany;" "German Experiences, addressed to the 
English, both stayers at home and goers abroad ;'' " Homes and Haunts 
of the most eminent British Poets ;" " The Hall and the Hamlet, or Scenes 
and Characters of Country Life." 

WiUiam Howitt, as well as his wife, Mary, contributed largely to the 
"People's Journal," and afterwards, in consequence of some misunder- 
standing between themselves and the editor, they established a journal 
of their own, called " Howitt's Journal," which was well received and 
encouraged, mingling, as it did, "tasteful literary essays with radical poli- 
tical disquisitions, and bringing them within the reach of every-day men 

61 



714 HO WITT. [VICTORIA 

of business and toil. The educated radicalism of England found an organ 
in these journals, whose tone harmonized with their sympathies. High as 
is Mr. Howitt's literary reputation, it is as a political and social reformer 
that his name will be the most widely known. His ' History of Priestcraft,' 
published in 1834, while he lived at Nottingham, and of which more than 
20,000 copies have been sold, gave him eclat in a new field, brought him 
some money, which he needed, and an election of alderman of that town, 
which he did not want at all. Four years afterwards he published ' Colo- 
nization and Christianity,' which led to the formation of the British Indian 
Society, to the abolition of slavery in the peninsula of Hindostan, and to 
efforts to relieve from oppression, and stimulate to enterprise, the myriads 
that swarm in that long-neglected portion of the empire. Mr. Howitt's 
writings in behalf of complete suffrage, religious toleration, and Irish 
relief are as honorable to the benevolence of his heart as are his numerous 
literary works to the fertility of his genius." 



WILLIAM COWPER. 

There is scarcely any ground in England so well known in 
imagination as the haunts of Cowper at Olney and Weston ; there 
is little that is so interesting to the lover of moral and religious 
poetry. There the beautiful but unhappy poet seemed to have 
created a new world out of unknown ground, in which himself 
and his friends, the Unwins, Lady Austen and Lady Hesketh, 
the Throckmortons, and the rest, played a part of the simplest 
and most natural character, and which fascinated the whole pub- 
lic mind. The life, the spirit, and the poetry of Cowper, present, 
when taken together, a most singular combination. He was 
timid in his habit, yet bold in his writing ; melancholy in the 
tone of his mind, but full of fun ard playfulness in his corre- 
spondence ; wretched to an extraordinary degree, he yet made the 
whole nation merry with his John Gilpin and other humorous 
writings; despairing even of God's mercy and of salvation, his 
religious poetry is of the most cheerful and even triumphantly 
glad kind : 

"His soul exults, hope animates his lays, 
The sense of mercy kindles into praise." 

Shrinking from the world, he yet dared to lash this world, from 
which he shrunk, with the force of a giant, and the justice of 
more than an Aristides. Of the Church, he yet satirized severely 
its errors and the follies of its ministers ; in political opinion he 
was free and indignant against oppression. The negro warmed 
his blood into a sympathy that produced the most effective strains 



1837.] HOWiTT. 715 

on his behalf — ^the worm beneath his feet shared in his tender- 
ness. Thus he walked through life, shunning its tumults and 
its highways, one of its mightiest laborers. In his poetry there 
was found no fear, no complaining; often thoroughly insane, 
nothing can surpass the sound mind of his compositions; haunted 
by delusions even to the attempt at suicide, there is no delusion 
in his page. All there is bright, clear, and consistent. Like 
his Divine Master, he may truly be said to have been bruised for 
our sakes. As a man, nervous terrors could vanquish him and 
unfit him for active life ; but, as a poet, he rose above all nerves, 
all terrors, into the noblest heroism, and fitted, and will continue 
to fit, others for life so long as just and vigorous thought, the 
most beautiful piety, and the truest human sympathies command 
the homage of mankind. There is no writer who surpasses Cow- 
per as a moral and religious poet. Full of power and feeling, he 
often equals in solemn dignity Milton himself. He is as impres- 
sive as Young, without his epigrammatic smartness ; he is as 
fervently Christian as Montgomery; and in intense love of nature 
there is net one of our august band of illustrious writers who 
surpasses him. He shows the secret of his deep and untiring 
attachment to nature in the love of Him who made it. 

" He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside. There 's not a chain 
That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of Nature, and, though poor, perhaps, compared 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 
With a propriety that none can feel, 
But who, with filial confidence inspired, 
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
And smiling say, ' My Father made them all !* 
Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
And by an emphasis of interest his, 
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love 
That planned, and built, and still upholds a world 
So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man ? 
Yes, ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
In senseless riot; but ye will not find 
In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, 
A liberty like his, who, unimpeached 



716 HOWITT. [VICTORIA 

Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, 
Appropriates nature as his Father's work, 
And has a richer use of yours than ye. 
He is indeed a freeman ; free by birth 
Of no mean city, planned or ere the hills 
Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea 
With all his roaring multitude of waves." 

The Task, Book V. 

The writings of Cowper testify everywhere to that grand ser- 
mon which is eternally preached in the open air ; to that Gospel 
of the field and the forest, which, like the Grospel of Christ, is the 
voice of that love which overflows the universe ; which puts down 
all sectarian bitterness in him who listens to it; which, being 
perfect, " casts out all fear,^' against which the gloom of bigots 
and the terrors of fanatics cannot stand. It was this which healed 
his wounded spirit beneath the boughs of Yardley Chase, and 
came fanning his temples with a soothing freshness in the dells 
of Weston. When we follow his footsteps there, we somewhat 
wonder that scenes so unambitious could so enrapture him ; but 
the glory came from within, and out of the materials of an ordi- 
nary walk he could raise a brilliant superstructure for eternity. 

Homes and Haunts of British Poets. 



THE TRUE DIGNITY OF LABOR. 

From the foundation of the world there has been a tendency 
to look down upon labor, and upon those who live by it, with 
contempt, as though it were something mean and ignoble. This 
is one of those vulgar prejudices which have arisen from con- 
sidering everything vulgar that was peculiar to the multitude. 
Because the multitude have been suffered to remain too long 
rude and ignorant, everything associated with their condition has 
been confounded with the circumstances of this condition. The 
multitude were, in their rudeness and ignorance, mean in the 
public estimation, and the labor of their hands was held to be 
mean too. Nay, it has been said that labor is the result of God's 
primary curse, pronounced on man for his disobedience. But 
that is a great mistake. God told Adam that the ground was 
cursed for his sake, but not that his labor was cursed. He told 
him that in the sweat of his face he should eat his bread till he 
returned to the ground. But so far from labor partaking of 
the curse, it was given him as the means of triumphing over the 
curse. The ground was to produce thorns and thistles, but labor 
was to extirpate these thorns and thistles, and to cover the face 



« 



1837.] HowiTT. 717 

of the earth with fruit-trees and bounteous harvests. And labor 
has done this : labor has already converted the earth, so far as 
its surface is concerned, from a wilderness into a paradise. Man 
eats his bread in the sweat of his face, but is there any bread so 
sweet as that, when he has only nature to contend with, and not 
the false arrangements of his fellow-men ? So far is labor from 
being a curse, so far is it from being a disgrace; it is the very 
principle which, like the winds of the air, or the agitation of the 
sea, keeps the world in health. It is the very life-blood of so- 
ciety, stirring in all its veins, and diffusing vigor and enjoyment 
through the whole system. Without man's labor, God had 
created the world in vain ! Without our labor, all life, except 
that of the rudest and most savage kind, must perish. Arts, 
civilization, refinement, and religion must perish. Labor is the 
grand pedestal of God's blessings upon earth ; it is more — like 
man and the world itself — it is the offspring and the work of 
God. 

So then, labor, instead of being the slave and the drudge, is 
really the prince and the demigod. It is no mean species of 
action, but it is, in truth, a divine principle of the universej issu- 
ing from the bosom of the Creator, and for the achievement of 
his most glorious purpose, the happiness of all his creatures. 
Who was and is the first great laborer ? It is God himself ! In 
the far depths of the unexplored eternity of the past God began his 
labors. He formed world after world, and poised them in infinite 
space, in the beautiful language of Shelley, like 

" Islands in the ocean of the world." 

From that time to the present there is every rational cause to 
believe that he has gone on laboring. He is the great laborer of 
eternity ', and it is the highest of possible honors to be admitted 
to labor with him. There is no patent of nobility which can 
confer a glory like this. When he had finished his labor on our 
planet, his last and noblest work being man, he conferred on him 
a partnership in his labors. He handed down to him the great 
chain of labor, and bade him encircle the world with it. He 
elected us as his successors here ; and, from that time to this, the 
great family of man has gone on laboring with head and hand in 
a myriad of ways, carrying out, by the unceasing operations of 
intellect and mechanic skill, by invention and construction, the 
designs of the Almighty for the good of his creatures. Can there 
positively be a sight more delightful to the great unseen but 
watchful Father of the Universe than that of all his countless 

61* 



718 HOWITT. [VICTORIA 

rational creatures busy at the beneficent scheme of boundless 
labors, out of which springs the gladness of all life? 

After the lapse of thousands of years, and when the cunning 
and the proud had cast a base stigma on that which God had 
created good and the medium of good, Christ came, and what 
were his remarkable words ? ^^My Father worheth hitherto, and 
I work.'' Thus again, the revelation of the Gospel was also a 
grand revelation of the dignity of labor. It was acknowledged 
to be a principle exercised by the Divinity itself. Every one who 
labored was made to appear, not the slave of man, but the fellow- 
laborer of God. Where, then, is the meanness of labor? If 
God himself does not disdain to use it, shall we ? If God seems 
even to glory in his labors, shall we be ashamed of ours ? No ! 
Labor is, as we have asserted, a divine principle of the universe ; 
it is the most honorable thing on the earth, and next to God 
himself, it is the most ancient in heaven. 

All honor then to labor, the offspring of Deity; the most 
ancient of ancients, sent forth by the Almighty into these nether 
worlds ; the most noble of nobles ! Honor to that divine prin- 
ciple which has filled the earth with all the comforts, and joys, 
and afiluence that it possesses, and is undoubtedly the instrument 
of happiness wherever life is found. Without labor, what is 
there ? Without it, there were no world itself. Whatever we 
see or perceive — in heaven or on the earth — is the product of 
labor. The sky above us, the ground beneath us, the air we 
breathe, the sun, the moon, the stars — what are they? The 
product of labor. They are the labors of the Omnipotent, and 
all our labors are but a continuance of His. Our work is a 
divine work. We carry on what God began. We build up, 
each in his own vocation, the grand fabric of human honor and 
human happiness, exercising all our faculties and powers, physical 
and intellectual, and the result is — What ? — 

The scene of all our glories, the sum of all our achievements 
as a race, everything which history can tell, which art has ac- 
complished, which science has exhumed from the depths of 
oblivious darkness, which embellishes our abodes, and animates 
us to still greater victories in the cause of man and mind. 

What a glorious spectacle is that of the labor of man upon 
the earth ! It includes everything in it that h glorious. Look 
round, my friends, and tell me what you see that is worth seeing 
that is not the work of your hands, and of the hands of your fel- 
lows — the multitude of all ages ? 

What is it that felled the ancient forests and cleared vast 
morasses of other ages ? That makes green fields smile in the 



V 



1837.] HowiTT. 719 

sun, and corn rustling in the breezes of heaven, whisper of plenty 
and domestic joy ? What raised first the hut, and then the cot- 
tage, and then the palace ? What filled all these with food and 
furniture — with food simple and also costly ; with furniture of 
infinite variety, from the three-legged stool to the most magnifi- 
cent cabinet and the regal throne ? What made glass, and dyed 
it with all the hues of rainbows or of summer sunsets ? What 
constructed presses, and books, and filled up the walls of libraries, 
every inch of which contained a mass of latent light hoarded for 
the use of ages ? What took the hint from the split walnut-shell 
which some boy floated on the brook, and set on the flood first 
the boat, and then the ship, and has scattered these glorious 
children of man, the water-walking ships, over all the oceans of 
the world, and filled them with the produce of all lands, and the 
machinery and steam of profoundest inventions ? What has 
made the wide sea like a great city street, where merchants arc 
going to and fro full of eager thoughts of self-accumulation, but 
not the less full of international blessings ? What has made the 
land like one great garden, laid down its roads that run like veins 
to every portion of the system of life, cut its canals, cast up its 
lines of railways, and driven along them, in fire and vapor, the 
awful but beneficial dragons of modern enterprise ? What has 
piled up all our cities with their glittering and exhaustless wealth, 
their splendid utensils, their paintings, their mechanic wonders, 
all serving domestic life, and its beloved fireside delights. Labor ! 
labor I labor ! It is labor, and your labor, men of the multitude, 
that has done it all ! 

True, the wise ones tell us that it is intellect that has done it. 
And all honor to intellect ! It is not I nor you, fellow-workers, 
who will attempt to rob the royal power of intellect of one iota 
of his renown. Intellect is also a glorious gift of the Divinity — 
a divine principle in the earth. We set intellect at the head of 
labor, and bid it lead the way to all wonders and discoveries ; but 
we know that intellect cannot go alone. Intellect cannot sepa- 
rate itself from labor. Intellect has also its labor ; and in its 
most abstract and ethereal form cannot develop itself without the 
co-operation of its twin-brother labor. When intellect exerts 
itself — when it thinks, and invents, and discovers — it then labors. 
Through the medium of labor it does all that it does; and upon 
labor it is perfectly dependent to carry out all its mechanical 
operations. Intellect is the head — labor the right-hand. Take 
away the hand, and the head is a magazine of knowledge and fire 
that is sealed up in eternal darkness. Such are the relationship 
of labor and intellect, 



720 HOWITT. [VICTORIA 



MARY HOWITT. 

Mary Howitt, the wife of William Howitt, whom, in the dedication of 
one of her volumes, she styles " My best Counsellor and Teacher; my 
Literary Associate for a quarter of a century ; my Husband and my Friend,' ' 
ranks second to none among the fair poets of England. She early evinced 
a strong passion for poetry, which was fed by the reading of old English 
ballads, and such books as " Percy's Reliques," in which she delighted. 
In 1823, a few years after their union, her husband and herself published 
jointly two volumes of poems; and "then," she herself says, " giving 
vent to my own peculiar fancies, I again took to writing ballads, which 
were published in various periodicals of the day, and the favorable reception 
they met with gave me the greatest encouragement." 

Mary Howitt eminently deserves the distinction of being the poetess of 
the young, the humble, and the poor. She has a heart that can feel for 
the wants and woes and trials of humanity in its humblest and most despised 
walks, and she pours out her soul in strains of touching, sympathetic ten- 
derness that melt the heart, and draw tears from the eyes. Childhood has 
for her an inexpressible charm ; and a reminiscence of that period takes 
precedence of everything besides ; and for the children of the poor she pleads 
with equal earnestness and pathos. Equally fine is her sympathy with low- 
liness. Anything that is humble, or dependent, or patient, or uncomplain- 
ing, or enduring, has a charm which attracts the whole intellect and heart 
of Mrs. Howitt at once. 

Though Mrs. Howitt excels in various styles, it is clear that her ballads 
are her masterpieces, and nothing can exceed the simple, plaintive tender- 
ness, the unaffected, overpowering pathos of these beautiful compositions. 

"In summing up my imperfect estimate of Mary Howitt, I would say 
that no female poet in our literature surpasses her, and that but few equal 
her. As a versifier, as a moralist, and as a philosopher, she may safely 
challenge comparison with any writer of her o\ n sex, and with most of the 
writers of the other sex: whilst as regards grace, pathos, womanly senti- 
ment, and Christian sympathy, she has scarcely 'a rival near her throne.' 
I believe that her writings have done more to elevate our idea of woman's 
intellectual character than all the treatises on that subject in our language : 
I believe, further, that her works tend most powerfully to ameliorate, exalt, 
and purify the heart of the world ; and I believe, finally, that she is the 
truest representative we have among our poets of that fervent, practical, 
beautiful Christianity which was prophesied in the song of the angels at 
Bethlehem — peace on earth and good- will among men. Mrs. Howitt is 
indeed a writer of whom England may be, and will be eternally proud."' 

'■ "Howton's Female Poets of Great Britain." 



1837.] HOWiTT. 721 



THE SALE OP THE PET LAMB. 

Oh! poverty is a weary thing; 'tis full of grief and pain ; 

It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain; 

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain. 

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win ; 
They scarcely know how labor is the penalty of sin ; 
Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. 

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; 

In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; 

They walk along life's pleasant ways, where all is rich and fair. 

The children of the poor man, though they be young each one, 
Must rise betime each morning, before the rising sun ; 
And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done. 

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride, 
The sunshine and the summer flowers upon the highway side, 
And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide. 

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three ; 
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty, 
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be. 

A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more, 
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store: 
There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door ; 

A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree. 

That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee; 

That had a place within their hearts, one of the family. 

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed ; 

The father labored all day long that his children might be fed. 

And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread. 

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood. 
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued. 
*• What is the creature's life to us?" said he: " 'twill buy us food. 

"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head 
Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed ; 
And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread." 

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring; 
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, 
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing. 

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, 
Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously: 
"Oh ! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?" 

"Let's take him to the broad green hill !" in his impotent despair 
Said one strong boy : " let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair; 
I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there." 



722 HOWITT. [VICTORIA 

Oh vain ! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, 
With a strong cord they tied him fast ; and o'er the common brown, 
And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town. 

The' little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow. 
From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow ; 
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow. 

Oh ! poverty is a weary thing ; 'tis full of grief and pain; 
It keepeth down the soul of man as with an iron chain ; 
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain. 



MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. 

Dwellers by lake and hill, 
Merry companions of the bird and bee, 

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill. 
With unconstrained step and spirit free. 

No crowd impedes your way, 
No city wall proscribes your further bounds ; 

Where the wild flocks can wander, ye may stray 
The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. 

The sunshine and the flowers. 
And the old trees that cast a solemn sli«de; 

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours. 
And the green hills whereon your fathers played; 

The gray and ancient peaks. 
Round which the silent clouds hang day and night; 

And the low voice of water, as it makes. 
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight: 

These are your joys. Go forth, 

Give your hearts up unto their mighty power; 

For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, 

And speaks in love from every tree and flower. 

The voice of hidden rills 
Its quiet way into your spirit finds; 
And awfully the everlasting hills 
Address you in their many-toned winds. 

Ye sit upon the earth 
Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee ; 

And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, 
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently. 

Hence is it that the lands 
Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; 

Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands, 
Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! 



1837.] HOWiTT. 723 

Children of pleasant song 
Are taught within the mountain solitudes; 
For hoary legends to your wilds belong, 
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. 

Then go forth : earth and sky 
To you are tributary ; joys are spread 

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie 
In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread. 



THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly, 

" 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy ; 

The way into my parlor is up a winding stair. 

And I've got many curious things to show when you are there." 

" Oh no, no," said the little fly ; " to ask me is in vain — 

For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again." 

" I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high ; 

Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly: 

"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, 

And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in !" 

" Oh no, no," said the little fly, " for I've often heard it said. 

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!" 

Said the cunning spider to the fly — " Dear friend, what can I do 

To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you 1 

I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice; 

I'm sure you're very welcome^ — 'Will you please to take a slice?" 

"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "kind sir, that cannot be; 

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see." 

" Sweet creature," said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise ; 
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes ! 
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf; 
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself" 
" I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you please to say, 
And, bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day," 

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den. 
For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again; 
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly. 
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly. 

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing 
" Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing ; 
Your robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon your head ; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead !" 

Ala^! alas! how very soon this silly little fly, 

Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by; 

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew. 

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and her green and purple hue — 



724 HOwiTT. [victoria 

Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last, 
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. 
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, 
Within his little parlor — but she ne'er came out again! 

And now, dear little children, who may this story read, 
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed; 
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, 
And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly. 



FATHER IS COMING. 

The clock is on the stroke of six, 

The father's work is done ; 
Sweep up the hearth, and mend the five. 

And put the kettle on. 
The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 
'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold. 

He is crossing o'er the wold apace. 
He is stronger than the storm ; 

He does not feel the cold, not he, 
His heart it is so warm. 

For father's heart is stout and true 

As ever human bosom knew. 

He makes all toil, all hardship light: 
Would all men were the same! 

So ready to be pleased, so kind, 
So very slow to blame! 

Folks need not be unkind, austere. 

For love hath readier will than fear. 

Nay, do not close the shutters, child ; 

For far along the lane 
The little window looks, a..d he 

Can see it shining plain. 
I've heard him say he loves to mark 
The cheerful firelight through the dark. 

And we'll do all that father likes ; 

His wishes are so few. 
Would they were more! that every hour 

Some wish of his I knew ! 
I'm sure it makes a happy day. 
When I can please him any way. 

I know he's coming by this sign, 

That baby's almost wild ; 
See how he laughs and crows and stares 

Heaven bless the merry child! 
He's father's self in face and limb, 
And father's heart is strong in him. 



1837.] iiowiTT. 725 

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now; 

He's through the garden gate. 
Run, Httle Bess, and ope the door, 

And do not let him wait. 
Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, 
For father on the threshold stands. 



THE LOST ONE. 

We meet around the board, thou art not there ; 

Over our household joys hath passed a gloom ; 
Beside the fire we see thy empty chair, 

And miss thy sweet voice in the silent room. 
What hopeless longings after thee arise ! 
Even for the touch of thy small hand I pine; 

And for the sound of thy dear little feet. 
Alas! tears dim mine eyes, 
Meeting in every place some joy of thine. 

Or when fair children pass me in the street. 

Beauty was on thy cheek; and thou didst seem 

A privileged being, chartered from decay ; 
And thy free spirit, Hke a mountain stream 

That hath no ebb, kept on its cheerful way. 

Thy laugh was like the inspiring breath of spring. 
That thrills the heart, and cannot be unfelt ; 

The sun, the moon, the green leaves and the flowers, 
And every living thing. 
Were a strong joy to thee; thy spirit dwelt 

Gladly in life, rejoicing in its powers. 

Oh ! what had death to do with one like thee. 

Thou young and loving one ; whose soul did cling. 
Even as the ivy clings unto the tree. 

To those that loved theel Thou, whose tears would spring 
Dreading a short day's absence, didst thou go 
Alone into the future world unseen, 

Solving each awful untried mystery, 
The dread unknown to know ; 
To be where mortal traveller hath not been, 

Whence welcome tidings cannot come from thee 1 

My happy boy! and murmur I that death 

Over thy young and buoyant frame had power? 
In yon bright land love never perisheth, 

Hope may not mock, nor grief the heart devour. 
The beautiful are round thee; thou dost keep 
Within the Eternal Presence ; and no more 

Mayst death, or pain, or separation dread : 
Thy bright eyes cannot weep. 
Nor they with whom thou art thy loss deplore; 

For ye are of the living, not the dead. 

62 



726 BROUGHAM. [VICTORIA 

Thou dweller with the unseen, who hast explored 

The immense unknown ; thou to whom death and heaven 
Are mysteries no more ; whose soul is stored 

With knowledge for which man hath vainly striven; 
Beloved child, oh ! when shall I lie down 
With thee beneath fair trees that cannot fade ? 

When from the immortal rivers quench my thirst? 
Life's journey speedeth on ; 
Yet for a little while we walk in shade; 

Anon, by death the cloud is all dispersed; 
Then o'er the hills of heaven the eternal day doth burst. 



HENRY BROUGHAM, 1779. 

The history of this most distinguished statesman, orator, scholar, and 
philanthropist is so identified with the history of his country for the last 
fifty years, that it would be impossible to write his life without making the 
groundwork of it a history of the age in which he lived. " The public 
measures with which he is most closely identified are, the advocacy of the 
manufacturing and commercial interests, as opposed to orders in council, 
and other restrictions on trade ; hostility to the continental combinations of 
the successors of Pitt, and their legitimate oifspring, the exhausting wars 
of the Holy Alliance ; the vindication of Queen Caroline in the struggle 
with her libertine husband ; the freedom of the press, attempted to be over- 
awed by prosecutions for libels on the government and the church ; the 
education of the middle and lower orders ; religious toleration for dis- 
senters and Catholics; reform in the civil and criminal law ; Parliamentary 
reform; municipal reform; poor-laws reform; the abolition of the slave 
trade and slavery ; retrenchment in government expenditures ; the independ- 
ence of the Canadian Legislature, and the repeal of the corn-laws. What 
a catalogue have we here ! Upon all these measures, each of which was 
an era in British history, Brougham has acted a leading, and, upon many, a 
controlling part. His speeches upon most of them surpassed those of any 
other of their advocates, whether we consider the extent of the information 
displayed, the depth and energy of the reasoning, the scope and vigor of 
the style, the eloquence of the appeals to justice and humanity, or the 
majesty and splendor of the highest passages.'" 

Henry Brougham is the eldest son of Henry Brougham, Esq., of 
Brougham Hall, in Westmoreland, and was born in the year 1779. He re- 
ceived the rudiments of his education at the high school in Edinburgh, then 

* Read an eloquent chapter (the sixteenth), in Stanton's "Reforms and 
Reformers of Great Britain," upon the life, services, and character of Lord 
Brougham— a chapter worth the price of the book. 



1837.] BROUGHAM. 727 

under the superintendence of Dr. Adam, and, in 1795, entered the univer- 
sity, where he distinguished himself by the aptness and energy of mind he 
displayed in grasping any subject which he made the object of his studies. 
In 1802, he became one of the projectors and chief contributors of the 
" Edinburgh Review," in conjunction with Mr. Jeffrey, Sydney Smith, and 
others; and, in 1803, published ** An Inquiry into the Colonial Policy of 
the European Powers," which at once drew the eyes of the public upon its 
author. After being called to the Scots' bar, he made a tour to the north 
of Europe, and on his return commenced practice in the Court of King's 
Bench, London. Here his reputation rose rapidly, and gained for him both 
popularity and emolument. 

He first entered Parhament in 1810, and here he found the appropriate 
field for his transcendent abilities. In 1815, he introduced his own bill for 
the better education of the poor, and in 1818 succeeded in carrying it through 
a committee of the whole house, having supported it in a speech of extraordi- 
nary brilliancy. In 1820, on the commencement of the proceedings against 
Queen Caroline, in the House of Lords, Mr. Brougham appeared as her 
attorney-general, at the head of her legal defenders. His bearing on this 
occasion was such as almost to awe the accusers of his royal client, whilst 
his skilful cross-examination of the witnesses against her, and his masterly 
speech in her behalf, had such an effect, that Lord Liverpool thought it 
advisable to abandon the prosecution. 

Towards the end of 1823, Mr. Brougham had the gratification of seeing 
the London Mechanics' Institution established, in the formation of which 
he had greatly assisted ; and, shortly after, he published an admirable pam- 
phlet, entitled " Practical Observations upon the Education of the People, 
addressed to the Working Classes and their Employers." In June, 1824, 
he brought before Parliament the circumstances relative to the horrible treat- 
ment of the missionary Smith, in Demerara, and continued to denounce 
slavery and the slave trade, and to advocate the cause of emancipation, on 
every opportunity. 

In the early part of 1825, Mr. Brougham was elected Lord Rector of the 
University of Glasgow, in opposition to Sir Walter Scott, and, at the instal- 
lation, delivered one of the most finished and eloquent orations ever com- 
posed, although it had been written during the bustle and fatigue of the 
Northern Circuit. 

The year 1827 is memorable for the establishment of the " Society for 
the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge," of which Mr. Brougham was Presi- 
dent. He was its most active promoter, and composed for it the admirable 
" Treatise on the Objects, Pleasures, and Advantages of Science" — its first 
publication. In this year, also, the London University was founded, and 
the name of Brougham will ever be associated with it as one of its origin- 
ators. In 1829, he supported the Catholic Relief Bill, introduced by the 
Wellington administration, and at the general election of 1830, he was, in 
the most flattering manner, elected for Yorkshire, where he had no influence 
whatever beyond that of his great public celebrity. 

In the spring of 1828, he made his memorable speech on the subject of 
reform in the administration of the law, on which " he spoke six hours and 



728 BROUGHAM. [VICTORIA 

a half; during all that time riveting the attention of his hearers. The way 
in which he relieved this dry subject, into the details of which he was 
obliged to enter, the vast body of information he brought forward, and the 
enlightened nature of the amendments he proposed, render the speech alto- 
gether one of the most remarkable in parliamentary history."* 

The accession of Lord Grey's administration in November, 1830, was 
the signal for Mr. Brougham's appointment to the Lord Chancellorship, and 
his elevation to the peerage, by the title of Baron Brougham and Vaux, of 
Brougham, in Westmoreland. But it has been correctly remarked that his 
acceptance of the Chancellorship, and his consequent removal from the 
House of Commons, was the greatest political error of his life ; for that 
house was the very field for him to display his transcendent abilities and 
exert his all-powerful influence. During the administration of Earl Grey, 
the celebrated Reform Bill was passed, which contained many provisions 
of substantial good, though it did not accomplish all that its ardent friends 
wished and hoped.^ 

Lord Brougham continued to discharge the duties of Lord Chancellor 
until the dissolution of the Melbourne cabinet in 1834, when he went out 
with the other ministers. Since that time he has been constantly exerting 
his transcendent abiUties in the House of Lords, in favor of every measure 
that is calculated to advance the best interests of society ; but to particular- 
ize all his efforts would be quite out of the question in my limited space. 
His chief publications are, "An Inquiry into the Colonial Policy of the 
European Powers," two volumes; "Biography of Eminent Statesmen and 
Men of Letters, in the reign of George HI," three volumes ; "^A Discourse 
on Natural Theology, '-'^ and an edition of his Parliamentary Speeches, 

* Biography in the " National Portrait Gallery." 

^ " The reformers expected much from the new administration, and every- 
thing from Brougham. Large quantities of ripe fruit were expected, therefore, 
to be immediately gathered. Sydney Smith foreshadowed this in his droll 
way. In a speech during the struggle, he said : 'All 5'oung ladies will im- 
agine, as soon as this bill is carried, that they will be instantly married. 
Schoolboys believe that gerunds and supines w^U be abolished, and that currant 
tarts must ultimately come down in price ; the corporal and sergeant are sure of 
double pay ; bad poets will expect a demand for their epics ; fools will be dis- 
appointed, as they always are ; reasonable men, who know what to expect, 
will find that a very serious good has been obtained.' Much was done for 
reform by the Grey ministry, after the passage of the bill. In less than two 
years, West India slavery was abolished — the East India Company's mono- 
poly destroyed — the poor laws amended — the criminal code softened — the ad- 
ministration of the courts essentially improved — the Scotch municipal corpo- 
rations totally reformed — and many abuses corrected in the Irish church 
establishment. But young ladies, bad poets, and fools of all sorts, clamored 
for more, and many reasonable men were disappointed." 

Stanton^s '< Reforms and Reforiners,^^ p. 188. 

^ Of his " Discourse on Natural Theology," the ''Edinburgh Review" thus 
speaks : " It has often been made a reproach to Christianity, and often has it 
proved a snare to the young hiquirer, that men of genius have not readily yielded 
to the weight of its testimony. Impotent as this argument is, it has been 
wielded with considerable eflect ; and although such examples of infidelity are 
not difficult of explanation, yet it is the best and fairest reply to point to that cloud 
of witnesses which is resplendent with the names of Milton and Locke, of 



1837.] BROUGHAM. 729 

revised by himself.^ Feeling painfully conscious how little justice so 
meagre a sketch can do to a man of such wonderful powers and varied 
learning — the greatest intellect of the nineteenth century — I will close this 
notice with an extract from a "Memoir," prefixed to a work entitled 
" Opinions of Lord Brougham," &c., published in London, 1837 : — 

" A quality of Lord Brougham's mind, that is almost as extraordinary as 
his extent of information, is its singular activity. His energies never seem 
to flag — even for an instant ; he does not seem to know what it is to be 
fatigued or jaded. Some such faculty as this, indeed, the vastness and 
universality of his acquirements called for, in order to make the weight 
endurable to himself, and to bear him up during his long career of political 
activity and excitement. Accordingly, labors that would go far to upset 
the reason, or destroy the powers of ordinary men, seem to produce no 
more effect on him than do the hot sands and swift pace of the desert on 
the dromedary. Activity, strife, intellectual contest — these are the elements 
of his existence, and of his success. 

" Take the routine of a day, for instance. In his early life he has been 
known to attend, in his place in court, on circuit, at an early hour in the 
morning. After having successfully pleaded the cause of his client, he 
drives off to the hustings, and delivers, at different places, eloquent and 
spirited speeches to the electors. He then sits down in the retirement of 
his closet to pen an address to the Glasgow students, perhaps, or an elabo- 
rate article in the ' Edinburgh Review.' The active labors of the day are 
closed with preparation for the court business of the following morning ; 
and then, in place of retiring to rest, as ordinary men would, after such ex- 
ertions, he spends the night in abstruse study, or in social intercourse with 
some friend from whom he has been long separated. Yet he would be 
seen as early as eight on the following morning, actively engaged in the 
court, in defence of some unfortunate object of government persecution; 
astonishing the auditory, and his fellow- lawyers no less, with the freshness 
and power of his eloquence. 

Bacon, Newton, and Boyle. To this honored list, the friends of truth will no 
doubt rejoice in the accession of another name, and hail the appearance of a 
work written by one of the most remarkable men of his age — an orator 
unrivalled for the force of his eloquence — a reasoner whose dialectical 
powers it would be difficult to match — a philosopher of great and varied ac- 
quirements — a statesman pre-eminent in acuteness and perspicacity. Is it not 
an event to be welcomed by the church, and to be hailed by Christians of 
every creed, that, in the meridian of his power — amid the strife of contending 
factions, and under the burden and distraction of the highest functions — such 
a man is come forward as the advocate of Natural and Revealed Religion ?" 
• "His speeches unquestionably stand in the very first rank of oratorical 
masterpieces. They contain individual passages of eloquence, rhetoric, 
debate, logic, equal to anything ; besides condensed qualities of information 
brought powerfully to bear upon particular subjects, and a mass of masculine 
sense, variegated by sharp llings of sarcasm, and illustrated by a display of 
wit, and seasoned by tart peculiarities of temper and language, which render 
them, in their collected form, one of the richest legacies which the genius of 
oratory ever bequeathed to the unborn time." 

** Giljillan''s Literary Portraits.^'' 

62* 



730 BROUGHAM. [VICTORIA 

" A fair contrast with this history of a day, in early life, would be that of 
one at a more advanced period ; say in the year 1832. A watchful observer 
might see the new Lord Chancellor seated in the court over which he 
presided, from an early hour in the morning until the afternoon, listening 
to the arguments of counsel, and mastering the points of cases with a grasp 
of mind that enabled him to give those speedy and unembarrassed judg- 
ments that have so injured him with the profession. If he followed his 
course, he would see him, soon after the opening of the House of Lords, 
addressing their lordships on some intricate question of law, with an acute- 
ness that drew down approbation even from his opponents, or, on some 
all- engrossing political topic, casting firebrands into the camp of the enemy, 
and awakening them from the complacent repose of conviction to the hot 
contest with more active and inquiring intellects. Then, in an hour or so, 
he might follow him to the Mechanics' Institution, and hear an able and 
stimulating discourse on education, admirably adapted to the peculiar capa- 
city of his auditors ; and, towards ten, perhaps, at a Literary and Scientific 
Institution in Marylebone, the same Proteus-like intellect might be found 
expounding the intricacies of physical science with a never-tiring and elastic 
power. Yet, during all those multitudinous exertions, time would be 
found for the composition of a discourse on Natural Theology, that bears 
no marks of haste or excitement of mind, but presents as calm a face as 
though it had been the laborious production of a contemplative philosopher." 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Let it not be supposed that I am inclined to exaggerate. I 
entertain no fear of slavery being introduced by the power of the 
sword. It would require a stronger — it would demand a more 
powerful man even than the Duke of Wellington^ to effect such 
an object. The noble duke may take the army, he may take the 
navy, he may take the mitre, he may take the great seal. I will 
make the noble duke a present of them all. Let him come on 
with his whole force, sword in hand, against the Constitution, and 
the energies of the people of this country will defeat his utmost 
efforts. Therefore, I am perfectly convinced that there will be no 
unconstitutional attack on the liberties of the people. These are 
not the times for such an attempt. There have been periods when 
the country heard with dismay that ^'The soldier was abroad." 
That is not the case now. Let the soldier be abroad ; in the present 
age he can do nothing. There is another person abroad — a less 
important person in the eyes of some, an insignificant person, 
whose labors have tended to produce this state of things. The 
schoolmaster is abroad ! And I trust more to him, armed with 
his primer, than I do to the soldier in full military array, for up- 






1837.] BROUGHAM. 731 

holding and extending the liberties of his country. I think the 
appointment of the Duke of Wellington is bad in a constitutional 
point of view ; but as to any violence being in consequence directed 
against the liberties of the country, the fear of such an event I 
look upon to be futile and groundless. 



" MAN OVER MEN HE MADE NOT LORD." — MUton. 

I trust that at length the time is come when Parliament will 
no longer bear to be told that slave-owners are the best lawgivers 
on slavery ; no longer allow an appeal from the British public to 
such communities as those in which the Smiths and the Grims- 
dalls are persecuted to death for teaching the Gospel to the negroes; 
and the Mosses holden in affectionate respect for torture and mur- 
der : no longer suffer our voice to roll across the Atlantic in 
empty warnings and fruitless orders. Tell me not of rights — 
talk not of the property of the planter in his slaves. I deny the right 
— I acknowledge not the property. The principles, the feelings of 
our common nature rise in rebellion against it. Be the appeal 
made to the understanding, or to the heart, the sentence is the 
same that rejects it. In vain you tell me of laws that sanction 
such a crime ! There is a law above all the enactments of human 
codes — the same throughout the world — the same in all times — 
such as it was before the daring genius of Columbus pierced the 
night of ages, and opened to one world the sources of power, 
wealth, and knowledge ; to another, all unutterable woes : such as 
it is at this day. It is the law written by the finger of God on 
the heart of man; and by that law unchangeable and eternal, 
while men despise fraud, and loathe rapine, and abhor blood, they 
will reject with indignation the wild and guilty fantasy, that man 
can hold property in man ! In vain you appeal to treaties, to 
covenants between nations : the Covenants of the Almighty, 
whether the Old Covenant or the New, denounce such unholy 
pretensions. To those laws did they of old refer, who maintained 
the African trade. Such treaties did they cite, and not untruly ; 
for by one shameful compact you bartered the glories of Blenheim 
for the trafiic in blood. Yet, despite of law and of treaty, that 
infernal traffic is now destroyed, and its votaries put to death like 
other pirates. How came this change to pass ? Not, assuredly, 
by Parliament leading the way; but the country at length awoke ; 
the indignation of the people was kindled; it descended in thunder, 
and smote the traffic, and scattered its guilty profits to the winds. 



732 BROUGHAM. [VICTORIA 

NoWj therij let the planters beware — let their assemblies beware — 
let the government at home beware — let the Parliament beware ! 
The same country is once more awake — awake to the condition of 
negro slavery ; the same indignation kindles in the bosom of the 
same people ; the same cloud is gathering that annihilated the 
slave trade ; and, if it shall descend again, they on whom its 
crash may fall will not be destroyed before I have warned 
them. But I pray that their destruction may turn away from us 
the more terrible judgments of Grod ! 

From his Speech, in July, 1830. 



HAPPY EFFECTS OF EDUCATION. 

The tendency of knowledge is, and the tendency of its diffu- 
sion undoubtedly is, to improve the habits of the people, to bet- 
ter their principles, and to amend all that which we call 
their characters; for there are a host of principles and feel- 
ings which go together to make up what we call, in the com- 
mon acceptation of the words, the human character. How does 
this diffusion operate ? To increase habits of reflection, to en- 
large the sphere of the mind, to render it more capable of re- 
ceiving pleasurable emotions, and of taking an interest in other, 
and in higher and better matters than mere sensual gratification. 
It tends to improve the feelings, as well as to increase the re- 
flective habits ; and it tends, therefore, to the attainment of that 
which in itself tends immediately and directly to improve the 
character and conduct of a nation. 

It tends to increase prudence and prudential habits, and to 
amend and improve the human feelings. The ancients have de- 
scribed the effects of education in far better language, and much 
more happily than I can do — ^'emoUit mores nee shut esse feros'' 



RAILROADS versuS WAR. 

When I saw the difficulties of space and time, as it were, over- 
come — when I beheld a kind of miracle exhibited before my 
astonished eyes — when I surveyed mosses pierced through on which 
it was before hardly possible for man or beast to plant the sole of 
the foot, and now covered with a road and bearing heavy wagons, 
laden not only with innumerable passengers, but with merchan- 
dise of the largest bulk and weight — when I saw valleys made 






1837.] BROUGHAM. 733 

practicable by bridges of ample height and length, which spanned 
them — saw the steam railway traversing the surface of the water 
at a distance of sixty or seventy feet in perpendicular height — 
saw the rocks excavated, and the gigantic power of man penetrat- 
ing through miles of the solid mass, and gaining a great, a lasting, 
an almost perennial conquest over the powers of nature by his 
skill and industry — when I contemplated all this, was it possible 
for me to avoid the reflections which crowded into my mind — not 
in praise of man's great deeds — not in admiration of the genius 
and perseverance which he had displayed, or even of the courage 
which he had shown in setting himself against the obstacles which 
matter had opposed to his course — no, but the melancholy reflec- 
tion that whilst all these prodigious efibrts of the human race, 
so fruitful of praise, but so much more fruitful in lasting blessings 
to mankind, and which never could have forced a tear from any 
eye, but for that unhappy casualty which deprived me of a friend 
and you of a representative,^ a cause of mourning which there 
began and there ended ; when I reflected that this peaceful, and 
guiltless, and useful triumph over the elements and over nature 
herself had cost a million of money, whilst fifteen hundred mil- 
lions had been squandered in bloodshed, in naturalizing barbarism 
over the world — shrouding the nations in darkness — making blood- 
shed tinge the earth of every country under the sun — in one hor- 
rid and comprehensive word. War — the greatest curse of the 
human race, and the greatest crime, because it involves every 
other crime within its execrable name, and all with the wretched, 
and, thank God, I may now say, the utterly frustrated, as it 
always was the utterly vain, attempt to crush the liberties of the 
people ? I look backwards with shame, with regret unspeakable — 
with indignation to which I should in vain attempt to give utter- 
ance, upon that course of policy which we are now happily too 
well informed and too well intentioned ever to allow again whilst 
we live — when I think that, if one hundred, and but one hundred 
of those fifteen hundred millions, had been employed in promoting 
the arts of peace, and the progress of civilization, and of wealth, 
and prosperity amongst us, instead of that other employment which 
is too hateful to think of, and almost, now-a-days, too disgusting 
to speak of — (and I hope to live to see the day when such things 
will be incredible— •when looking back we shall find it impossible 
to believe that they ever happened) — instead of being burthened 
with eight hundred millions of debt, borrowed, after spending seven 

* Hon. Wni. Huskisson, who was accidentally killed at the opening of the 
Liverpool and Manchester Railway, Sept. 15, 1830. 



734 BROUGHAM. [VICTORIA 

hundred millions, borrowed when we had no more to spend — we 
should have seen the whole country covered with such works as now 
unite Manchester and Liverpool, and should have enjoyed peace un- 
interrupted during the last forty years, with all the blessings which 
an industrious and a virtuous people deserve, and which peace 
profusely sheds upon their lot. 



TRUE GLORY AND HONOR. 

In pursuing the course which I now invite you to enter upon, I 
avow that I look for the co-operation of the King's Government ; 
and on what are my hopes founded ? Men gather not grapes from 
thorns, nor figs from thistles. But that the vine should no longer 
yield its wonted fruit, that the fig-tree should refuse its natural 
increase, required a miracle to strike it with barrenness. There 
are those in the present ministry whose known liberal opinions have 
lately been proclaimed anew to the world, and pledges have been 
avouched for their influence upon the policy of the State. With 
them, others may not, upon all subjects, agree ; upon this I 
would fain hope there will be found little difference. But, be that 
as it may, whether I have the support of the ministers or no — to 
the House I look with confident expectation, that it will control 
them, and assist me ; if I go too far, checking my progress — if too 
fast, abating my speed — but heartily and honestly helping me in 
the best and greatest work which the hands of the lawgiver can 
undertake. The course is clear before us ; the race is glorious to 
run. You have the power of sending your name down through 
all times, illustrated by deeds of higher fame and more useful im- 
port than ever were done within these walls. You saw the greatest 
warrior of the age — conqueror of Italy — humbler of Germany — 
terror of the north — saw him account all his matchless victories 
poor, compared with the triumph you are now in a condition to 
win — saw him contemn the fickleness of fortune, while, in despite 
of her, he could pronounce his memorable boast, " I shall go down 
to posterity with the code in my hand !" You have vanquished him 
in the field; strive now to rival him in the sacred arts of peace. 
Outstrip him as a lawgiver whom in arms you overcame ! The 
lustre of the Regency will be eclipsed by the more solid and en- 
during splendor of the reign. The praise which false courtiers 
feigned for our Edwards and Harrys, the Justinians of their day, 
will be the just tribute of the wise and the good to that monarch 
under whose sway so mighty an undertaking shall be accomplished. 



1837.] BROUGHAM. 735 

Of a truth, sceptres are most chiefly to be envied for that they he- 
stow the power of thus conquering and ruling. It was the boast 
of Augustus — it formed part of the glare in which the perfidies of 
his earlier years were lost — that he found Rome of brick, and left 
it of marble ; a praise not unworthy a great prince, and to which 
the present reign has its claims also. But how much nobler will 
be our Sovereign's boast, when he shall have it to say, that he 
found law dear, and left it cheap ! found it a sealed book — left it 
a living letter ! found it the patrimony of the rich — left it the in- 
heritance of the poor! found it the two-edged sword of craft and 
oppression — left it the staff of honesty and the shield of innocence ! 
To me, much reflecting on these things, it has always seemed a 
worthier honor to be the instrument of making you bestir your- 
selves in this high matter, than to enjoy all that office can be- 
stow — office, of which the patronage would be an irksome incum- 
brance, the emoluments superfluous, to one content, with the rest 
of his industrious fellow-citizens, that his own hands minister 
to his wants ; and, as for the power supposed to follow it, I have 
lived near half a century, and I have learned that power and 
place may be severed. But one power I do prize : that of being 
the advocate of my countrymen here, and their fellow-laborer else- 
where, in those things which concern the best interests of man- 
kind. That power, I know full well, no government can give — 
no change take away ! 



APTITUDE OF YOUTH FOR KNOWLEDGE. 

It is not the less true, because it has been oftentimes said, that 
the period of youth is by far the best fitted for the improvement 
of the mind, and the retirements of a college almost exclusively 
adapted to much study. At your enviable age, everything has 
the lively interest of novelty and freshness ; attention is perpe- 
tually sharpened by curiosity ; and the memory is tenacious of the 
deep impressions it thus receives, to a degree unknown in after 
life ; while the distracting cares of the world, or its beguiling 
pleasures, cross not the threshold of these calm retreats ; its distant 
noise and bustle are faintly heard, making the shelter you enjoy 
more grateful ; and the struggles of anxious mortals, embarked 
upon that troublous sea, are viewed from an eminence, the secu- 
rity of which is rendered more sweet by the prospect of the scene 
below. Yet a little while, and you too will be plunged into those 
waters of bitterness, and will cast an eye of regret, as now I do, 
upon the peaceful regions you have quitted for ever. Such is 



736 BROUGHAM. [VICTORIA 

your lot as members of society ; but it will be your own fault if 
you look back on this place with repentance or with shame ; and 
be well assured that, whatever time — ay, every hour — you squan- 
der here on unprofitable idling, will then rise up against you, and 
be paid for by years of bitter but unavailing regrets. Study then, 
I beseech you, so to store your minds with the exquisite learning 
of former ages, that you may always possess within yourselves 
sources of rational and refined enjoyment, which will enable you 
to set at naught the grosser pleasures of sense, whereof other men 
are slaves ; and so imbue yourselves with the sound philosophy of 
later days, forming yourselves to the virtuous habits which are its 
legitimate offspring, that you may walk unhurt through the trials 
which await you, and may look down upon the ignorance and 
error that surround you, not with lofty and supercilious contempt, 
as the sages of old times, but with the vehement desire of en- 
lightening those who wander in darkness, and who are by so much 
the more endeared to us by how much they want our assistance. 

Address to the Glasgow Students. 



PROSPECTS OP THE AGE — SNEERERS AT EDUCATION. 

Let us, as well we may, heartily rejoice in the magnificent pros- 
pect which now lies before us of good government, general im- 
provement in virtue, and the attainment of national prosperity 
through the restoration of the people's most unquestioned right — 
a cheap administration of their affairs — a substantial, effectual re- 
lief of their heavy burdens. The enemies of improvement have, 
indeed, of late years, confessed, by their conduct, the hopelessness 
of any further attempt to obstruct its progress : they have bent 
before the wave, from fear of being swept away by it ; and they 
now have recourse to sneers and jibes at the instruction of the 
people. We are called schoolmasters — a title in which I glory, 
and never shall feel shame. Our Penny Science is ridiculed by 
those who have many pence and little knowledge ; our lectures are 
laughed at, as delivered to groups of what those ignorant people 
in fine linen and gaudy attire call, after the poet, " lean, unwashed 
artificers ;" a class of men that should be respected, not derided 
by those who, were they reduced to work for their iDread, would 
envy the skill of the men they now look down upon. Let such 
proud creatures enj oy the fancied triumph of their wit ; we care 
not for their light artillery (if, indeed, their heavy jests can so be 
termed) half so much as we did for their serious opposition. If 
they are much amused with our penny sciences, I hope, before 



V 



1837.] BROUGHAM. 737 

long, to see tliem laugh twice as mucli at our penny politics ; 
because, when the abominable taxes upon the knowledge which 
most concerns the people are removed — I mean the Newspaper 
Stamp, we shall have a universal diffusion of sound political 
knowledge among all classes of the community: and if lectures 
divert them so mightily now, I can tell them that preparation is 
making for affording them much more entertainment in the same 
kind, by a very ample extension of the present system of lecturing, 
and by including politics in the course. 



THE SCHOOLMASTER AND THE CONQUEROR. 

But there is nothing which these adversaries of improvement 
are more wont to make themselves merry with than what is 
termed the ^^ march of intellect f' and here I will confess, that I 
think, as far as the phrase goes, they are in the right. It is a 
very absurd, because a very incorrect expression. It is little 
calculated to describe the operation in question. It does not 
picture an image at all resembling the proceedings of the true 
friends of mankind. It much more resembles the progress of the 
enemy to all improvement. The conqueror moves in a march. 
He stalks onward with the ^^ pride, pomp, and circumstance of 
war" — banners flying — shouts rending the air — guns thunder- 
ing — and martial music pealing, to drown the shrieks of the 
wounded, and the lamentations for the slain. Not thus the school- 
master, in his peaceful vocation. He meditates and prepares in 
secret the plans which are to bless mankind ; he slowly gathers 
round him those who are to further their execution — he quietly, 
though firmly, advances in his humble path, laboring steadily, but 
calmly, till he has opened to the light all the recesses of ignorance, 
and torn up by the roots the weeds of vice. His is a progress not 
' "• be compared with anything like a march — but it leads to a far 
more brilliant triumph, and to laurels more imperishable than the 
destroyer of his species, the scourge of the world, ever won. 

Such men — men deserving the glorious title of Teachers of 
Mankind — I have found, laboring conscientiously, though, per- 
haps, obscurely, in their blessed vocation, wherever I have gone. 
I have found them, and shared their fellowship, among the daring, 
the ambitious, the ardent, the indomitably active French ; I have 
found them among the persevering, resolute, industrious Swiss ; 
I have found them among the laborious, the warm-hearted, the 
enthusiastic Germans ; I have found them among the high-minded, 
63 



738 BROUGHAM. 

but enslaved Italians; and in our own country, God be thanked, 
tbeir numbers everywhere abound, and are every day increasing. 
Their calling is high and holy; their fame is the property of 
nations; their renown will fill the earth in after ages, in propor- 
tion as it sounds not far off in their own times. Each one of 
these great teachers of the world, possessing his soul in peace, 
performs his appointed course — awaits in patience the fulfilment 
of the promises, and resting from his labors, bequeathes his me- 
mory to the generation whom his works have blessed, and sleeps 
under the humble but not inglorious epitaph, commemorating 
'' one in whom mankind lost a friend, and no man got rid of an 
enemy.'" 



739 



QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION, 



WHEN THE WORK IS USED AS A 



COLLEGE OR SCHOOL TEXT-BOOK. 



JOSEPH WARTON. P. 17. 

When born ? In whose reign 
chiefly flourished ? Where educated ? 
Profession ? First publication ? Cha- 
racter of his odes ? What Latin 
classic translate ? What is said of it ? 
What periodical did he assist in ? To 
what post chosen in 1755 ? What 
next did he publish ? What is its cha- 
racter ? What edit in 1797? For 
what is he in general distinguished ? 
When did he die ? 

HESTER CHAPONE. — P. 25. 

Maiden name 1 With whom did 
she early correspond ? With what 
literary characters become acquaint- 
ed ? What first publish ? When 
married? Result? What did she 
publish in 1773? What is said of it ? 
What in 1775 ? When did she die ? 

ELIZABETH MONTAGU. — P. 31. 

Whose daughter ? When born ? 
Whose society enjoy in early life ? 
Whom marry, and when? What pub- 
lish in 1769? Who have praised it? 
What club met at her house ? Why 
so called ? What annual entertain- 
ment did she give ? When die? What 
are her works ? Their character ? 

HUGH BLAIR. P. 36. 

When and where born ? Where 
educated ? What good intellectual 
habit did he early form ? What pro- 
fession enter? What lectures deliver 
in 1759 ? What dissertation publish 
in 1763 ? What else did he publish ? 
When die ? What of his sermons ? 



For what most now known ? 
is said of them ? 



What 



JAMES BEATTIE. P. 43. 

Where born and educated ? What 
profession did he enter ? His first 
publication.? What publish in 1770 ? 
Its aim ? What is his celebrated 
poem ? When published ? How re- 
ceived ? What else did he publish ? 
On what does his fame chiefly rest ? 
His character ? 

WILLIAM PALEY. P. 54. 

How characterized ? Where born ? 
Where educated ? What college 
anecdote told of him ? What did he 
publish in 1785 ? What works subse- 
quently ? When did he die ? What 
is said of his character ? What as a 
writer? What of his works ? Which 
the most ingenious and original of 
them ? What is its object ? What 
the most exceptionable of his works ? 
Why ? What anecdotes told of him 
when at the university ? 

ELIZABETH CARTER. P. 63. 

When born ? What of her early 
years? What attainments did she 
make before her twenty-first year ? 
What higher attainments ? Her first 
appearance in print ? What good 
early habit ? (note.) What did Dr. 
Johnson say of her ? Repeat the 
complimentary lines in the " Gentle- 
man's Magazine." What write in 
1746 ? What Greek author translate ? 
How did Johnson praise her scholar- 
ship ? What of her poems ? What 



740 



EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 



rule did she make in her social inter- 
course ? What do you think of it ? 
Her chief prose compositions ? When 
did she die ? 

HENRY KIRKE "WHITE. P. 71. 

Repeat the lines of Byron. When 
born ? His early propensities ? His 
early tasks ? How did he commence 
his studies? What prize gain ? When 
appeared a volume of his poems ? 
How treated by the critics ? Who 
encouraged him ? What change took 
place in his character ? How effect- 
ed ? Consequence of his severe ap- 
plication to study ? How aided ? 
What honors gain ? At what ex- 
pense ? When die ? What of his 
character ? His poems ? Opinion of 
Sir Egerton Brydges ? 

ANNA SEWARD. — P. 80. 

Whose daughter ? Early life? By 
what appellation known ? .First pub- 
lication ? What in 1799? When 
die? 

' CHARLOTTE SMITH. P. 84. 

Where pass her childhood ? Re- 
peat the lines. Of her youth? When 
married ? What of the connection ? 
Misfortunes? Of her sonnets ? Her 
husband's liberation ? Whither ob- 
liged to flee ? How long remain ? 
What did she do for support ? Her 
publications ? When die ? What of 
her poetry ? For what most now 
known ? 

MARY TIGHE. — P. 89. 

Whose daughter ? Where live ? 
By what most known ? What is said 
of it ? When die ? (note.) 

RICHARD CUMBERLAND. — P. 95. 

How celebrated ? Where educat- 
ed ? What office did he first receive ? 
What publish ? In what department 
of literature did he now employ his 
time? On what mission sent ? Result? 
Where go ? What publish ? What 
essays ? His last work ? When did 
he die ? Character ? What of the 
" Observer ?" 

JAMES GRAHAME. P. 106. 

Where born and educated ? For 
what calling destined ? By what is 



he chiefly known ? How published ? 
For what profession did he prepare ? 
What else did he publish ? Health ? 
Whither go ? Result ? When die ? 
Character of his poetry ? Opinion of 
the " Quarterly Review ?" 



GRANVILLE SHARP. — P. 112. 

His early life ? Controversies ? 
What attainments in consequence ? 
What office hold ? What circum- 
stance gave a new direction to his 
life ? To what decision of the courts 
did this finally leud ? With whom 
correspond ? What instance of great 
conscientiousness ? What works did 
he publish ? What kindred object 
of philanthropy now engaged him ? 
What incident aroused the nation to 
a sense of the wickedness of the slave- 
trade ? What other good work did 
he originate ? Of what society first 
chairman ? When did he die ? What 
of his character ? Works ? Inscrip- 
tion on his monument in Westminster 
Abbey ? 

HERBERT KNOWLES. P. 122. 

Where born ? What of his charac- 
ter ? Repeat the " Lines written in 
the Churchyard." 

THOMAS BROWN. P. 124. 

For what distinguished ? Where 
educated? How distinguished ? What 
first publish ? What profession study ? 
What next publish ? What new field 
enter 's Poems ? His great work, 
what ? When die ? Character ? 

ANNE HUNTER. P. 134. 

Whose daughter ? Wife ? In what 
excel ? What of her poetry ? 

VICESIMUS KNOX. — P. 136. 

When born ? Where educated ? 
What write ? What profession enter ? 
How long hold the post? By whom 
succeeded ? His next publication ? 
What in 1788 ? What next ? When 
die ? Character ? 

CHARLES VrOLEE. P. 144. 

When born ? Youth? Where edu- 
cated ? What prize obtain ? Profes- 
sion ? Where settled ? At what age 
die? 



EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 



741 



ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. — P. 152. 

By what work known ? Early life ? 
How and where apprenticed ? Occu- 
pation ? What led to his earliest 
attempts at poetry ? Where retire ? 
Business ? Who aided him ? What 
publish ? How received ? When 
die ? Best poems ? Who has praised 
them ? " Farmer's Boy," how di- 
vided ? 

THOMAS EESKINE. — P. 159. 

Whose son ? Where educated ? 
Influence of his mother ? When called 
to the bar ? First cause ? Success ? 
How appear in 1781 ? In what great 
cause did he exert his talents ? Anec- 
dote ? (note.) In what engage in 1789 ? 
What is said of it ? Most arduous 
effort ? How opposed ? Result ? On 
what side in politics ? What pam- 
phlet publish ? To what post ele- 
vated ? Influence upon him ? Where 
and when die ? What of his elo- 
quence ? 

GEORGE GORDON BYRON. P. 167. 

What of his character? Where 
educated ? How apply himself? His 
first published work ? Where re- 
viewed ? How? Influence of it? 
What publish in 1812? How re- 
ceived ? What followed ? Whom 
marry ? Result ? On whom did so- 
ciety lay the blame ? How did he 
bear it ? What works compose ? 
Conduct abroad ? In what cause en- 
gage ? Where and when die ? Cha- 
racter of his poetry ? 

ANNA L^TITIA BARBAULD. — P. 178. 

Whose daughter? What of her 
childhood? Who conducted her edu- 
cation ? Where reside ? What first 
publish ? How received ? Whom 
marry ? In what did her husband 
engage ? What did she next publish ? 
Where go ? Subsequent publications ? 
What trials experience ? When die ? 
Character of her writings ? 

REGINALD HEBER. P. 192. 

Whose son ? Youth ? Where edu- 
cated ? What prize gain ? What 
publish ? What post of honor and 
usefulness receive in 1822 ? When 
go ? How qualified ? When die ? 



What work published after his death ? 
What of his poetry ? Hymns ? 

ROBERT POLLOK. P. 200. 

What publish in 1827 ? What was 
thought of it? What of his early 
age ? Where educated ? Profession ? 
Health ? When die ? With whom 
compared ? How ? What of « The 
Course of Time ?" 

JONATHAN DYMOND. — P. 207. 

When born ? To what society be- 
long ? How employed in early life ? 
Early disposition ? Whom marry ? 
What first publish? What of it ? His 
next work ? Its character ? His 
health ? How did he bear his illness ? 
When die ? What of his character ? 
What of his " Essays on Morality ?" 

WILLIAM HAZLITT.— P. 217. 

For what distinguished ? First em- 
ployment ? First publications ? What 
subsequently ? His most elaborate 
work ? When die ? What of his 
writings ? 

ROBERT HALL. P. 226. 

Whose son ? Early propensities ? 
Where educated ? What friendships 
form ? His eloquence ? Where set- 
tled ? How afflicted ? Effects ? Where 
settled when restored ? To what pe- 
riodical contribute ? What did he 
advocate in his church ? Where re- 
move in 1826 ? Habits of study ? 
When die ? Character as a preacher ? 
Mental endowments ? Style ? Per- 
sonal character ? 

HENRY MACKENZIE. P. 238. 

Where and when born ? Where 
educated ? First work ? Of what 
periodicals the editor ? What poet 
was he the first to bring into 
notice? Of his private life ? Charac- 
ter of his writings ? When die ? 

WALTER SCOTT. P. 250. 

Where and when born ? Youthful 
employments ? Where educated ? 
What of his early reading ? What 
profession did he study ? Whom 
marry ? First publication ? When 
quit his profession ? Remarks ? 
What publish in 1808? Success? 
What publications followed ? What 



742 



EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 



in 1814 ? Its popularity ? What suc- 
ceeded? What object did he ac- 
complish ? What partnership form ? 
Consequences ? What did he under- 
take ? Result ? Compared with i 
whom, and how? (note.) Sickness? 
Efforts to regain his health ? When 
return home? When die? What 
of his poetry ? Moral tone ? Its 
general subjects? Remark of Dr. 
Arnold ? His prose works ? Cha- 
racter of them ? 

CHARLES BUTLER. — P. 267. 

When born? Family? Where 
educated ? His publications ? Gene- 
ral subject of his writings ? By what 
most known ? 

GEORGE CRABBE. — P. 272. 

When born ? Early life ? First 
publications ? What distinguished 
statesman aided him ? First published 
poems after ? His profession ? Last 
publication ? When die ? What of 
his writings ? Characteristics ? 

JAMES MACKINTOSH. P. 284. 

How distinguished ? When born ? 
Early habits and education ? Early 
friend ? Profession ? To what did he 
chiefly give his attention ? When go 
to London? What great political 
event at this time ? What distin- 
guished work appeared then ? Who 
replied to it ? Title of Mackintosh's 
work ? When called to the bar ? 
Course of lectures ? In what great 
cause engaged ? What office receive ? 
Benefits from it ? What write ? Gene- 
ral character ? 

HANNAH MORE. P. 295. 

Whose daughter ? Where born ? 
Where settle ? What enterprise en- 
gage in ? Her first literary eff'orts ? 
Succeeding publications ? Change of 
opinions? Whither retire ? Publica- 
tions? Traits? Success? What 
publish in 1799 ? What afterwards ? 
Her last publications ? When die ? 
Influence of her writings ? Poetry ? 
Prose ? 

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE. P. 317. 

When born ? Early training ? Re- 
markable indication ? Where edu- 
cated ? When enter Parliament ? 



Whither travel, and with whom ? In- 
fluence ? In what great cause engage 
in 1787? His first speech? What 
publish in 1797 ? Success ? What 
witness in 1807? When die? Lord 
Brougham's opinion of him ? His 
eloquence ? 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. — P. 323. 

How styled ? When born ? Where 
educated ? His attainments ? With 
whom become intimate ? What Uto- 
pian project ? To whom married ? 
Where settle? In what engage? 
How long last ? Where travel and 
study? Where settle on his return ? 
His bad habit ? Its effects ? Where 
go for his health ? When return ? 
After life ? Defect in his character ? 
Under whose care placed ? His 
chief prose works and poetry ? When 
die? His influence? What of his 
prose? Of his poetry? Conversation? 
Question to Lamb and reply ? 

EDWARD IRVING. P. 337. 

Where born ? Where educated ? 
Where settled ? Power as a preacher ? 
Appearance ? Popularity ? Of what 
accused? When die ? Testimony of 
Dr. Chalmers ? His publications ? 

CHARLES LAMB. P. 342. 

For what distinguished ? When 
and where born ? Where educated ? 
How employed ? To whom did he 
devote his attention almost exclusive- 
ly ? First appearance as an author ? 
What else publish ? Most celebrated 
work? What is said of it? What 
else publish ? What in conjunction 
with his sister ? When die ? Rank 
as a poet ? Prose ? Style ? 

FELICIA HEMANS. P. 356. 

Maiden name ? When born ? Early 
life ? First publication ? What in 
1812 ? To whom married ? Result ? 
Whither retreat? How there em- 
ployed ? What prize obtain in 1819 ? 
What in 1821 ? What publish in 
1823? What subsequently ? Whom 
visit in 1829 ? What publish in 1830 ? 
Where afterwards reside ? Health ? 
When die ? Jeffrey's opinion of her 
poetry ? (note.) General character of 
her writings ? 



EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 



748 



NATHAN DRAKE. P. 367. 

Where and when born ? Where 
educated? Where settled as a phy- 
sician ? How long ? When die ? 
What of him as a physician ? What 
are his publications ? Influence on 
the mind ? What of his general cha- 
racter ? 

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. P. 381. 

How distinguished ? When born ? 
Where educated ? To what devote 
his time ? What profession enter ? 
Where reside ? How embarrassed ? 
What claim prefer ? Influence ? 
When enter Parliament ? Where 
afterwards reside ? When die ? For 
what are we indebted to him ? To 
what did he chiefly devote his atten- 
tion ? His first publications ? What 
commence in 1805 ? His subsequent 
publications ? What has been re- 
marked of him as a writer ? What of 
his " Autobiography ?" (note.) 

ARCHIBALD ALISON. P. 396. 

Whose son ? Where educated ? 
Profession ? What publish in 1790 ? 
What in 1814 ? When and where 
die? 

La:TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. P. 

402. 

Where and when born " State of 
her family in her early life? Her 
first productions ? Their multiplicity ? 
To whom married, and when ? Her 
death ? What of her genius ? 

LANT CARPENTER. — P. 410. 

Where educated ? Profession ? 
When die ? For what distinguished ? 
What did he publish ? For what most 
known ? 

JOHN IRELAND. P. 415. 

When born ? Station ? For what 
review write ? For what work most 
known? What of it? What of his 
life ? Of his benevolence ? When 
die? 

THOMAS ARNOLD. — P. 420. 

Where and when born ? Where 
educated ? How early distinguished ? 
What profession enter ? To what 
distinguished post elected ? When 
die ? What of his general character 



and influence ? As a scholar? As a 
historian ? As a schoolmaster ? As 
a theologian ? As a man ? Give the 
account from his journal on his last 
day. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. P. 429. 

Where born ? Where educated ? 
To what opinions inclined ? Descrip- 
tion by Cottle ? In what scheme 
interested [.? To whom married? 
Whither journey? What publish? 
Where settle on his return ? What 
publish in 1S05 ? Subsequent pub- 
lications ? To what review largely 
contribute ? What of his latter years ? 
When die ? Opinion of Coleridge ? 
Of Professor Wilson ? 

JOHN FOSTER. P. 443. 

When born ? Where educated ? 
First publication ? Its character ? 
To what review contribute ? His 
general character ? 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. P. 449. 

When born ? Where educated ? 
First publication ? Its reception ? 
Whither travel ? To whom married ? 
What receive in 1805 ? Subsequent 
publications ? What of his " Speci- 
mens of British Poets ?" (note.) What 
magazine edit ? To what post elected 
in 1827 ? With what other magazine 
connected ? Subsequent publications ? 
Whither go for his health? When 
die? What of him as a poet? 

THOMAS MITCHELL. P. 458. 

Whose son ? Where educated ? 
For what eminently distinguished ? 
What articles contribute to the 
" Quarterly ?" What of his scholar- 
ship ? 

THOMAS HOOD. P. 462. 

What of his writings ? Early em- 
ployment? What post occupy ^in 
1821 ? For what magazine write ? 
What of his life ? When die ? What 
of his works ? 

SYDNEY SMITH. — P. 473. 

When and where born ? Where 
educated ? With what did he early 
become connected ? Give the sub- 
stance of his account of it. How 
occupied after his removal to Lon- 



744 



EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 



don ? On what subjects write ? What 
celebrated letters publish ? What of 
his general character ? Distinguishing 
traits ? When die ? 

THOMAS CHALMERS. P. 489. 

When born ? Where educated ? 
Profession? What publish? Where 
settle ? What subsequent publica- 
tions ? To what professorship ap- 
pointed ? To what removed in 1S28 ? 
What noble stand take in 1843 ? 
Whatof his academic honors ? When 
die? 

JOSEPH JOHN GURNEY. P. 494. 

For what distinguished ? Whose 
son ? When born ? By whom early 
trained ? Where educated ? Attain- 
ments ? To what sect belong ? What 
as a speaker ? What journeys take ? 
For what object ? Where go in 1837 ? 
What islands visit, and for what ob- 
ject, in 1839? What subsequent 
visits on the Continent? Object? 
When die ? His various works ? In 
what societies chiefly interested ? 
His benevolence ? His habits ? His 
general character ? 

RICHARD MANT. P. 504. 

When born ? Where educated ? 
What post occupy ? When die ? 
What publish ? His poems ? 

HORACE SMITH. P. 507. 

Whose son ? Of what the author ? 
Occasion of *' Rejected Addresses ?" 
(note.) His business ? Death ? 

BERNARD BARTON. P. 512. 

Where and when born? His occu- 
pation ? His health ? Death ? How 
now known ? Character of his poetry ? 
Private character ? 

EBENEZER ELLIOTT. P. 521. 

For what celebrated ? Where and 
when born? How early employed? 
What of his early developments ? 
What first stimulated him ? Who was 
his favorite author ? Where enter 
into business ? First publication ? 
Subsequent ? What called out his 
talent ? Where spend his last years ? 
Testimony of Montgomery ? 

FRANCIS JEFFREY. P. 531. 

How distinguished ? Where edu- 



cated ? What profession enter ? 
What society join in 1792 ? Whom 
there meet ? When called to the 
bar ? To whom married ? Projectors 
of the " Edinburgh Review ?" How 
published ? Who the first editor ? 
Who the liberal publisher ? (note.) 
Who composed the fraternity of 
critics? Remarks of Stanton ? When 
did the first number appear ? What 
demand for it ? Greatest circulation ? 
What of the times ? What of the 
ability of its contributors ? What of 
Jefirey's part ? To what post elected 
in 1820 ? In 1829 ? In 1830 ? When 
enter Parliament ? What publish in 
1844? What of the influence he has 
exerted ? Who subsequent editor of 
the *' Review ?" How employ his 
latter days ? When die ? 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. P. 549. 

When and where born ? Profes- 
sion ? What first publish, and when ? 
With whom form a friendship ? Next 
publication ? Its reception ? Who 
condemned it ? To whom married ? 
Where reside ? By whom there 
visited ? Consequent appellation ? 
What publish in 1814? How receiv- 
ed ? Opening of the *' Edinburgh" 
article ? Next publication ? Whom 
visit in 1831 ? How honored in 1835 ? 
In 1839? In 1842? When die ? 
Opinions of the literary world ? With 
whom is it absurd to compare him ? 
What poets does he not equal ? AVhat 
sure test to try the merits of a poet ? 
(note.) Lord Jefirey's subsequent 
opinions ? 

JOANNA BAILLIE. P. 564. 

Whose daughter ? When born ? 
With whom contemporary ? With 
whom reside ? Her first publication ? 
Second ? Third ? What siSsequent 
publications ? When die ? In what 
department of poetry did she particu- 
larly excel ? Character of her miscel- 
laneous poetry ? 

SAMUEL ROGERS. — P. 572. 

Repeat Byron's lines. Where and 
when was Rogers born ? What rare 
instance does he present ? Education ? 
First publication ? When did the 
" Pleasures of Memory" appear ? 
How received ? Labor bestowed on 



EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 



745 



it? Opinion of the "Edinburgh Re- 
view?" What publish in 1798? In 
1812? Subsequently? What in 
1822? Characteristics? By what 
chiefly known ? The character of 
his poetry ? His social position ? 

JAMES MONTGOMERY. P. 584. 

His works ? Where born ? How 
educated ? Where establish himself? 
Troubles and persecutions? With 
•what feelings does he look back upon ' 
them in 1840 ? What publish in 1797 ? | 
In 1805 and 1806? How received? 
When did his " W^est Indies"' appear ? 
Object? WhatinlSl2? Subsequent} 
publications ? What event of his life 
in 1825? What course of lectures 
deliver in 1830 and 1831 ? What of 
his general character, sentiments, and 
principles ? 

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. P. 601. 

When born ? Where educated ? 
What prize attain ? What publish ? 
When die? Various works? What 
of Winchester ? (note.) Whose works 
edit? What principle maintain ? How 
reputed by Byron ? By what is Mr. 
Bowles most known ? What of them ? 



THOMAS MOORE. — P. 606. 

Where and when born ? Where 
educated ? Profession ? What first 
publish ? How received ? Next pub- 
lications ? By whom reviewed, and 
how? Consequences? Who ridiculed 
the affair? What publish in 1812? 
Subsequent publications ? What of 
his Hebrew Melodies and Irish Songs ? 
What publish in 1817? What of it ? 
What in 1823? In 1825? How cha- 
racterized ? Subsequent publications ? 
Characteristics as a poet ? 

JOHN WILSON. — P. 619. 
When born? Where educated? 
How early distinguished ? Where did 
he settle? On what does his fame 
rest? To what Magazine contribute ? 
Fault of his prose writings ? Where 
does his chief strength lie ? 

AMELIA OPiE. — p. 626. 
Whose daughter ? How early dis- 
tinguished ? To whom married ? Her 
first publication ? What others? Loss 
64 



in 1807? How signalized ? By what 
most known ? What of her poetry ? 

HENRY HART MILMAN. — P. 634, 

Whose son? Where educated? 
His poetical works ? Prose works ? 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. — 

P. 639. 
How characterizGd ? Whose son 7 
Where educated ? Howdislinguished ? 
Profession ? First essay in the " Edin- 
burgh Review ?" What of his essays ? 
How distinguished in politics? Five 
ablest contributors to the Edinburgh 
Review? (note.) How esteemed as a 
poet? In what field unrivalled ? On 
what subjects written ? Last publica- 
tion ? How characterized ? 

MRS. NORTON. — P. 657. 

Whose granddaughter? When 
born? Early indications ? First pub- 
lication ? To whom early married? 
What of the union ? Her next work ? 
How characterized by the " Quarterly 
Review?" Is it just? Difl^erence be- 
tween Mrs. Norton's and much of 
Byron's poetry ? 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. — P. 

666. 
What of her life? Where reside ? 
Her publications? How styled ? 

RICHARD WHATELY. P. 673. 

His influence as a writer? Cha- 
racteristics ? Name his publications. 
Which most known ? How spoken of 
by the " Edinburgh Review ?" 

ELIZA COOK. — P. 682. 
Her characteristics ? How attain 
her present high rank ? When did 
her first publication appear? What 
its title. 

SAMUEL WARREN. — P. 689. 

His distinguished traits as a writer ? 
His most celebrated work ? Other 
works ? Object of" Now and Then ?" 

MARTIN F. TUPPER. — P. 693. 

How distinguished ? Whose son ? 
When born ? Where educated ? First 
publication? Subsequent publica- 
tions ? By what most known ? His 



746 



EXAMINATION QUESTIONS. 



characteristics? Origin of the " Crock 
of Gold." 

MRS. JAMESON. — P. 705. 

Her own account of her objects in 
writing ? Her various works ? (note.) 
By what most known ? What of it ? 
Cause of its excellences ? What of 
her " Essays ?" 

WILLIAM HOWITT. — P. 713. 

What works has he published ? 
To what Journal did he and his wife 
largely contribute ? What one estab- 
lish ? How most known ? What 
work most popular ? 

MARY HOWITT. — P. 720. 

W^hat rank as a poet ? Early tastes ? 
What distinction deserve? In what 
style of poetry does she excel? Row- 
ton's opinion ? 



LORD BROUGHAM. — P. 726. 

How distinguished ? With what 
important subjects inseparably identi- 
fied ? Whose son ? When born ? 
Where educated ? In what work en- 
gaged in 1802? What drew public 
attention to him ? When enter Par- 
liament ? What bill introduce in 181.5 ? 
How engaged in 1820? In 1823? 
What soon after publish ? In what 
cause of philanthropy did he early en- 
gage ? To what post elected in 1825 ? 
Of what society President ? With 
what university connected ? Speech 
in 1828 ? When appointed Lord Chan- 
cellor ? Why was it not well for him 
to accept the appointment ? When 
go outof office ? How employed since? 
What works has he published ? His 
general character ? 



THE END. 



E.C.&J.BIDDLE'S 

SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 



THE UNITES STATES ARITHMETIO. 

THE UNITED STATES ARITHMETIC; designed for Acade- 

niies and Schools. By "William Vogdes, Professor of Mathematics iu the Central High 
School of Philadelphia. 

The first lO-l pages of the above-named work, embracing the rules to Compound Division 
inclusive, with 16 pages of miscellaneous exercises additional, are published as a First Part 
— designed for the use of Secondarj^ Schools and the junior classes of Grammar Schools and 
Academies — in a separate volume, at half the price of the whole work. 

A KEY to the above-named work, designed for the use of teachers, has also been pub- 
lished. 

" The United States Arithmetic" has been adopted as a class-book in the public schools of 
Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago, Lancaster, Camden, &c., and in very many highly respec- 
table private seminaries throtighout the Union. 



THE UNITED STATES PRIMAKY AlITHMETIG. 

THE UNITED STATES PRIMARY ARITHMETIC. By Pro- 

fessor W. Vogdes — ^ix press. 



BINS'S 3im EXERCISES IN AMTHMETID. 

THREE THOUSAND EXERCISES IN ARITHMETIC. By 

David King, late Principal of the Female Public High School, Front street, Baltimore. 
Third edition, revised and corrected, with an Appendix, by W. J. Lewis. 

A KEY to the work, for the use of teachers, has been published. 

This little book is used in the public schools of Baltimore, &c., and in many private semi- 
naries of respectable standing in various sections of the Union, and is adapted to use in 
connection with any treatise on arithmetic. 

The importance of numerous examples to insure a full understanding by the pupil of 
arithmetical rules, is generally conceded by teachers. Messrs. Jacob and Charles E. Abbott 
(the former well known as the author of those admirable books for children, the "Hollo," 
'•Lucy," and "Jonas" books, &c.,) thus express their opinion oa this subject: 

" It is generally the object, in text-books on arithmetic, to give a sufficient number of 
problems, under each rule, to exemplify and illustrate the process, so that it may be fully 
understood by the pupil. But experience in teaching arithmetic shows us that mvich more 
than this is reqiiired. It is not enovigh that the pupil understands an arithmetical process, nor 
that he is simply able to perform it. He must become thoroughly accustomed to the per- 
formance of it by means of long-continued practice, until the principles involved and the 
methods to be pursued, in all the various modifications which may arise, become completely 
and permanently familiarized to the mind. It is, accordingly, Iband necessary, in the best 
iixstitutions, to provide, in some way, a great number of examples for practice, after those 
contained in the text-books are exhausted." 



ALSOP'S AISEEMA. 

A TREATISE ON ALGEBRA, in which the principles of the science 

are familiarly explained and illustrated by numerous examples. Designed for the use of 
Schools, Academies, and Colleges. By Samuel Alsop, Principal of Friend.?' Select School, 
Philadelphia. Second edition, enlarged and improved. 

A portion of the work, comprising Quadratic Equations, is published separately, as Part 
First, for the use of lower classes. 

A KEY, for the use of teachers, has been published by E. C. & J B. 

The above-named work has been adopted as a text-book in Miami University, the Central 
High School of f hiladelphia, Hartford Public High School, Haverford (Friends' Collegiate) 
School, &c. 



E. C. & J. BIDDLE'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 



From Professor John Griscom, LL. D. 

Having long been acquainted with the reputation of the author of this -work as a very 
successful student of the higher mathematics, both of English and foreign authors, and a 
skilful and faithful teacher of youth, I have looked through his " Elementary Treatise on 
Algebra" with no little interest. The result of the examination is a full conviction that 
none of the treatises before extant with which I have been acquainted, through a long 
course of teaching, is so well adapted as this, under the care of an intelligent master, to 
indoctrinate the student into a thorough acquaintance with Algebraic Analysis, and qualify 
him for its application to Geometry and Physics. 

The care manifested in the gradation of his treatise, the neatness of the solutions, and the 
numerous, but choice selection of questions for practice, satisfactorily prove that the author 
is habituated to a knowledge of the wants of students, and has arranged his work in con- 
formity to such experience. JOHN GRISCOM. 

Burlington, N. J., 10th mo. 23d, 1S46. 

ALSDP'S FIRST LESSONS IN ALGEBRA. 

FIRST LESSONS IN ALGEBRA: designed for the use of Gram- 
mar Schools, and the lower classes in Academies. By Samuel Alsop, formerly Principal 
of the Friends' Select School for Boys, Philadelphia. 

In this work, the first principles of the science are presented in a clear and simple manner, 
and every thing not required for the full understanding of the subject has been omitted. 
The general plan pursued in the author's '"Treatise on Algebra" has been followed; omit- 
ting, however, those parts which are of a more abstruse character, and on that account not 
ada'pted to primary instruction. Throughout the work, great care has been taken to illus- 
trate every principle by numerous examples, in order to fix firmly in the mind of the pupil 
the general principles of the science ; and it is confidently believed that that discipline of the 
mind which constitutes so large a part of the value of mathematical studies, and which 
appears to have been so generally lost sight of in the preparation of the elementary treatises 
on Algebra published in our country, will be found to result from the use of this little work 
as a text-book for young pupils. It is used as a text-book in the Public Grammar Schools 
of Philadelphia, in the Primary Department of Girard College, and extensively in Academies 
and private Seminaries in various sections of the Union. 

VOSBES'S MENSURATION, 

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON MENSURATION AND 

PRACTICAL GEOMETRY ; together with numerous Proolems of practical importance ia 
Mechanics. By AVilliam Yogdes, Professor of Mathematics in the Central High School of 
Philadelphia, avxthor of the tJnited States Arithmetic. 

A KEY, for the use of teachers, has been published by E. C. & J. B. 

Dear Sir— I have examined you.r Treatise on Mensuration, &c., and am fully persuaded 
of its excellence. The accuracy of its definitions, and the copiousness of its illvistrations, 
make it admirably adapted to the wants of students in our elementary schools. Sincerely 
desiring that you may be compensated for your labour by its speedy introduction into our 
academies, <tc., 1 remain, truly, yours, M. L. STOEVER, 

Prof. Yogdes. Prin. of the Acad. Dept. Penna. College. 

Messrs. Biddle— In Yogdes's Mensuration you have given us the requisite multum in 
parvo. We shall introduce it in this institution. Yours, truly, 
Herkimer Co., N. Y., May 21, 1S47. L- W. ASHBURN, Prin. L. F. Acad. 

MAURY'S NAYISATIDN. 

THE TEXT-BOOK OF THE U. S. NAVY. 

AN ELEMENTARY, PRACTICAL, AND THEORETICAL 

TREATISE ON NAVIGATION. By M. F. Maury, Lieut. U. S. Navy. Third edition, much 
enlarged and improved. 

General Order, Navy Department. 

ISIaury's Navigation is hereby adopted as the text-book of the Navy. Midshipmen ar« 
therefore required to make themselves acquainted with at least so much of Mathematics, 
Nautical Astronomy, and the other kindred branches of Navigation as is therein contained. 

Professors of Mathematics and Boards for the examination of Midshipmen are chafed 
with the execution of this order. [Signed] , . ., ^ ^- T'J'K,-^: , 

The above-named work has also been adopted as a text-book m the Central Public Higlk 
School of Philadelphia, the High School of Baltimore, &c. 



E. C. & J. BIDDLE'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 

GUMMERE'S ASTEONOMY. 
AN ELEMENTARY TRSATISI^] ON ASTRONOMY, in Two 

Parts: the first containing- a clear and coinpt^ndious V'iow of tho Tiieory ; the second, a nuralicr 
of Practical Problems. To which are added Solar, Lunar, and other Astronomical 'J'abk-s. 
By John Giiniinere, A. JI., &c. &c. Fonrtli Kdition, revised and adapted to the present state 
of the science, liy K. Otis Kendall, A. M., Professor of Mathematics and Astronomy in the 
CV'Titral Hiu'h School of Philadelphia. 

The sale of three editions of this work, consisting of four thousand five hundred copies in 
all. and its use, for sopie yeai's past, as a text-book, in many collegiate institutions of the 
first rank in the United States («. p. the U. S. Military Academy at "West Point, Union Coilc-^e. 
the University of Pennsylvania, \Vesleyan University, and tlie Public Hi.;h School of I'hila- 
delphia,) would seem to render commendation unnecessary, to establish its chiims to the 
favorable coasideration of instructors; but the names of tlie two fi^entlemen whose opiiiions 
are appended, as well as their qualifications to judge of the merits of the work, ai-e so weii 
known, that the publishers are induced to add the weight of these opinions to the already 
firmly established reputation of the work. 

From Professor A. D. Bache, LL. D., Superintenrlent U. S. Caxt Surrey. 

The undersigned, having used the second edition of Gummere's Astronomy as a text-book 
in the University of Pennsylvania for several years, and a third edition tor a year, when last 
connected with the University, has had a good opportunity to judge of its merits, and re- 
commends it strongly for its clear style and perspicuous arrangement. The Appendix to the 
third edition contains matter of the highest interest to the practical astronomer as well a£ 
to the student. A. D. BACHE, 

Late Prof, of Natural FUiloaophy, Univ. of Pa. 

Messrs. E. C. & J. Biddle. 



Extract from a Letter to the Author. 

Respected Friend : — In returning to you my thanks for the copy of your work, I am 
happy in having it in my power to bear testimony to the favourable opinion which the late 
Dr. Bowditch entertained of the merits of the former edition. When I first engaged in as- 
tronomical computations, some years ago, I applied to the doctor for some direction as to the 
choice of suitable practical books. lie was not without those European preferences so com- 
mon to our scientific men, yet, without hesitation, he pronounced "Gummere's Astronomy" 
the best book obtainable for my purpose. Since then, it has been one of my principal guide- 
books, and one which I have always taken a pleasure in recommending to those wishing to 
become acquainted with the science, &c. Respectfully, your friend, 

November 28th, 18i3. JOHN DOWNES. 

MONGE'S STATICS. 
AN ELEMENTARY TREATLSE ON STATICS, by Gaspard 

Monge. With a biographical notice of the Author. Translated from the French, by Woods 
Baker, A. M., of the United States Coast Survey. 

The original work has long been known and highly admired by those familiar with tlie 
!<cientific liternture of France, having gone through eight editions at Paris and several at 
Brussels. Prof. A. D. Bache designates it "the classic of the geometrical method, and well 
adapted to the use of the students in our Colleges, Academies and High Schools." Prof. 
McCulloh, of Princeton College, says, " I have long thouglit that the publication of a trans- 
lation of the admirable Elementary Treatise on Statics of Monge would render important 
service to the cause of science and education in our country : the original work is al>ove all 
need of praise: the production of a great master, yet so perfectly clear and simple as to b» 
uf easy comprehension to the minds even of children, and as thorough as it is plain :" iu 
which opinion. Prof. Kendall, of the Central High School of Philadelphia concurs; and Prof. 
J. F. Frazer, of the University of Pennsylvania, writes: "1 am glad to learn that you are 
ibout to publish a translation of Monge's Elementary Treatise on Statics. It is a work dis- 
tinguished by the clearness of its method and the simplicity and general elegance of its 
demonstrations ; and will, in my opinion, be of great value to our instructors as a text-book." 

The work has been adopted as a text-book for the Senior and Junior classes of Princetou 
College. 

MAP OF THE WOULD AS K^OWIST TO THE AITCIEIJTS. 
MAP OF THE WORLD AS KNO^yN TO THE ANCIENTS; de- 

signed for the use of Colleges, Academies, and other Schools, and for students of ancient 
history generally; and especially adapted to illustrate the treatise on Classical Geography, 
contained in Fiske's Eschenburg's " Manual of Classical Literature." 

This map, which is just published, (July, 18.51,) has been compiled with great care, and i» 
believed to conform to the best authorities. It is very copious, yet easily legible; and, being 
printed in colors, presents a very beautiful appearance. Size Gl by 50 inches. Mounxeb 

ox R0I4-ERS; PRICE, ig5 PER COP?. 

3 



E. C. & J. BIDDLE'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 
MANUAL OF CLASSICAL LITERATURE. 

iOUKTH EDlTIOxX— -NINTH THOUSAND. 

MANUAL OF CLASSICAL LITERATURE, from the German 

of John J. Kpchonburg. 'With Additions bj' Professor Fi^ke, of Amherst College. The work 
comprises five parts: — 1. Classical Geography and Chronology. 2. Mythology of the Greeks 
and Romans. 3. Greek and Konian Antiquities. 4. Archjeology of Greek and Roman 
Literature and Art. 5. History of Ancient Literature, Greek and Roman. Fourth edition, 
much enlarged and improved; illustrated by twenty finely executed copper-plates, and by 
wood-cuts representing more than four hundred ditferent objects. In addition to these 
illustrations, thirty-two finely executed copper-plate engravings, referred to in the Manual, 
are bound as a Scppi.esibntal A'olume. 

The Manual has been placed among the text-books in many of the colleges of the United 
Btates, e. g., Harvard, Wesleyan, and Miami Universities; Universities of Pennsylvania aud 
Alabama ; Union, Rutger's, Amherst, Middlebury, Dartmouth, Bowdoin, W. Reserve, Mari- 
etta, Lafayette, and Hamilton colleges, &c. 



FISKE'S CLASSICAL ANTIQUITIES. 

Tills work, which is designed for use in High Schools and Academies, comprises the first 
three parts of the " Manual of Classical Literature." It is an 8vo volume of about 350 
pages, and embraces five distinct treatises :--l. Classical Geography and Topography; 
2. Classical Chronology ; 3. Greek and Roman Mythology ; 4. Greek Antiquities ; 5. Roman 
Antiquities. With copper-plate and wood engravings, illustrating more than 300 objects. 
Its price is one-half that of the " Manual." 

FEALE'S GRAPHICS. 

GRAPHICS, THE ART OF ACCURATE DELINEATION. A 

System of School Exercise for the Education of the Eye, and the training of the Hand, aa 
auxiliary to Writing, Geography, and Drawing. With an Introduction for the use of 
Teachers, explanatory of the first Education of the Eye, especially calculated for Primary 
Schools and young beginners. By 11. Peaie, late Professor of Graphics in the High School 
of Philadelphia. 

In use in the Public Schools of Philadelphia, in Rutger's Female Institute, N. Y., and in 
many other seminaries of high repute in varioxis parts of the Union. 

controllerF'copy-slips. 

These Copy-Slips are of the old-fashioned round style of writing, as opposed to the Car- 
stflirian or angular style; and consist of four sets, viz.. Large Text-hand, Text-hand, Round- 
hand, and Introduction to Rvmning-hand ; each set containing 24 to 2(j slips, or sentences, 
commencing with different letters of the p.lphabet, These sots or alphabets are stitched in 
hook-form, or pasted on separate slips of binder's board. In this latter form they are used 
in the Public Schools of Philadelphia, v.here its economy has been satisfactorily tested. 



HARDING'S ALPHABETICAL OUTLINES. 

ALPHABETICAL OUTLINES in German Text, Old English, 

Plain and Ornamental Print; together with examples of shading in each style. By W. A. 

Harding. ' 

DRAWING^BOOK OF FLOWERS AND FRUIT. 

DRAWTNG-BOOK OF FLOWERS AND FRUIT; with beauti- 

fiilly colored illustrations. Designed for the use of schools, private pupils, and amateurs. 
By Mrs. Anne Hill. 

•'We have never seen any thing of the kind, of American production, that could be at all 
compared with it, and cannot well imagine how the wealth and experience of Europe could 
produce a more excellent book of instruction, for the use of seminaries, private pupils, and 
Bmateurs. The designs and coloring appear faultless. The mechanical portions have been 
confided to master hand?, and the very first artists in the country have warmly commend* d 
the whole work." — Saturday Courier. — — ^ 

PROGRESSIVE LESSONS IN THE PAINTING OF 
FLOWERS AND FRUIT. 

BY MRS. ANNE HILL. 

The series consists of six sheets, each containing four studies, beautifully colored and 
gradually increasing in difiiculty of execution. The price of the set is S1.50; of the nuna- 
b<!rs separately, Nos, 1 and 2, each 25 cents; Nos. 3 and 4, each 31^ cents, and Nos. 5 and 9 
siioii 37 i cents. 

4 



E. C. &, J. BIDDLE'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 

BI'MUETRIE'S SGIENTIFID LEXICOE 

A TEXT-BOOK IN THE CKKTRAL niGH SCUOOL OF PHILADELPHIA. 

LEXICON SCIENTIARUM. A DICTIONARY OF TERMS 

used ill the various Lrancbes of Anatomy, Astronomy, Botany, Geology, Geometry, Hygiene, 
Mineralogy, Natural Philosophy, Physiology, Zoology, &c. By Ilenry M'Murtrio, M. i)., etc., 
I'rofessor of Anatomy, Physiology, and Natural Ilistory, iu the Central High School of 
l*hiladelphia. 

F)-om Samuel Gem-ge 3Iorton, M. D., Vice-P>'esi(lf-nt of the Academy of Natural Sciences, of 
Philadelphia ; formtrly Fres^dent of the Association of American Geologists and Naturalists , 
author of " Crania Americana," " Crania Egyptica," d-c. <£c. 

I hare examined Er. M'Murtrie's Dictionary of Scientific Terms, and believe it to be ad- 
iiiirably adapted to the explanation of the numerous technicalities that are inseparably 
connected with every department of Science. Such a glossary is indeed indispensable to the 
learner, who by its aid will find every step facilitated and much time saved. 

Philadelphia, October 27, 1847. SAMUEL GEOllGE MORTON. 

li-om M. H. Boyd, Professor of Qiemistry hi the Central High School, Philadelphia, die. 

Laboratory, at Old Mint, 
PuiL-UJELPinA, October 19, 1847. 
I have been much pleased with Dr. M'Murtrie's Scientific Dictionai-y. Such a work has 
been long needed to enable the student to acquire a correct knowledge of the derivation 
and meaning of the various scientific terms : It will also be found very convenient to more 
advanced scholars, as a book of reference. I therefore take great pleasure in recommend- 
ing it to the public in general. M. H. BO YE. 



OLEVEMND'S GOMFENIIIUM OF EMIISH IITERATUEE. 

A COMPENDIUM OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, chronologi- 

eally arranged, from Sir John Mandeville (1-lth century) to William Cowper (close of Ihth 
century;) consisting of Biographical Sketches of the Authors, choice Selections from their 
works; with Notes explanatory and illustrative, and directing to the best Editions, and to 
various criticisms. Designed as a text-book for Schools and Academies, and Colleges, as 
well as for private reading. By Charles D. Cleveland. 

10= Adojited as a text-boolc in the Public Normal and Grammar Schools of Philadelphia, the 
Public High Schools of Hartford, Providence, dc. dc. 

From Pev. John Ludloiv, D. D., Provost of the University of Pennsylvania. 

The public are greatly indebted to you for placing before our youth this Compendium of 
English Literatui-e. I hope it will cooimand the attention which it certainly deserves ; and 
if my name vrould have any influence, I would most earnestly recommend it to every young 
lady especially, who desires a "finished" education. 

Departing from my usual custom, if you or your publishers should deem this note of any 
use to extend the circulation of your valuable work, it is heartily at your service. 

University of Penna., January 13, 1S48. JOHN LUDLOW. 

From Professor Goodrich, of Yale CoUege. 

I have read Professor Cleveland's "Compendiim of English Literature" with lively inte- 
rest. The selections are made with uncommon taste and judgment. The biographical 
notices and critical estimates prefixed to the extracts appear to mo accurate p,iid discrimi- 
nating, and thi-y certainly add much to the interest of the work, which supplies a want 
that has long been felt, and which must, I think, when known, be deemed an almost indii*- 
pensable auxiliary in the highest classes of our schools and academies, in the study of 
English Literature. CUAUNCEY A. GOODRICH. 

New IIaven, January 20, 1848. 

From, Eev. Cliarles B. Haddocl; D. D., Professor of Intellectual Philosophy and English 
Literature in Dartmouth College. 

" Mt Dear Sir : — T have read your Compendium with great satisfaction and delight. It 
iS a work much n<'eded, and exceedingly well executed. The plan is, so far as I know, 
quite original: the biographical sketches are judicious and elegantly written ; and the 
selection of authors, and of passages from their works, in an eminent degree fitted tointro. 
duce the stutli nt to the most finished and most whol(!some portions of our Literatoie — tho 
richest, uoblest L;teruture the world has yet produced." 

5 



E. C. & J. BIDDLE'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 

CLEVELAND'S 
EIJGLISH LITEEATUEE OF THE 19th CENTURY. 
ENGLISH LITERATURE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, 

Chronologically Arrangied. Consi^tino; of biographical sketches of the authors and selections 
from tbefr works; with notes explanatory, illu.^trative, and directing to the best editions 
and Tarious criticisms; being a sequel to the "Compendium of English Literature." De- 
signed as a text-book for Colleges, Academies and the highest classes in other schools. 13y 
Charles D. Cleyeland. 

The extensive use of the "Compendium of English Literature" in schools, througlionfc 
the United States, and the high commendation which it has received from the leading peri- 
odicals of England, assure the publishers that the present volume, which, in its general plan, 
is similar, and, in the list of authors, probably more attractive to readers generally, will 
meet the favor of those desirous to promote a refined literary taste in the rising generation. 



HAERISON ON THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 

THE RISE, PROGRESS, AND PRESENT STRUCTURE OF THE 

English Language. By the Kev. Matthew Harrison, A. M., Rector of Church Oakley, Hants, 
and late Fellow of Queen's College, Oxford. 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

" Rarely have we been more disappointed — favourably, we mean — than by the examina- 
tion of this handsome volume. Instead of another abortive attempt to improve on Lindley 
Murray, which we expected to find, we found a most entertaining and instructive work on 
the gradual rise and development of the English language, containing an historical sketch 
of tiie various tribes and people who have occupied Britain a.t different times, and showing 
the various tongues which have contribvited to make up the medley which we call the 
English language. The manner in which this has been done is explained by numerous ex- 
amples, and the genius and character of the English langiiage are described; the sources 
of corruption are designated ; the present struetui-e of the language is very thoroughly 
explained, and the construction of the different parts of speech, and their nature and use, 
niustrated by pertinent examples. Take it all in all, the volume before us contains more 
valuable, readable — yea, ajid entertaining — matter, than any work we have met with for 
many a day." — Boston Daily Evening Trai^eller. 

" A work of a class of which English literature has very few, and of which there is neres- 
sity for very man}'. . . . Mr. Harrison's book affords capital hints against lack of precision 
and failure in effect. ... It is curious and entertaining enough to be put on the parlor 
table." — Literary World, JVeiv Turk. 

'•We commend it to the favorable attention of the lovers of a language in which the cause 
of liberty is to be pleaded througho'at the world." — JV. T. Observer. 

"Altogether, the book is a delightful one. Designed mainly for schools and colleges, it 
will yet find its way into the libraries of men of letters and men of taste, and will do much 
to correct the growing faults of style in many modern .vriters. ... It is in every respect an 
admirable volume, which, for the sake of the language we love, we trust may have a verj 
extensive circulation." — Evening Bulletin, Philadelphia. 

"It should be in the possession of every teacher or public speaker or writer in the land." — • 
Model American Courier, Philadelphia. 



CLEVELAND'S HYMNS FOR SCHOOLS. 

HYMNS FOR SCHOOLS ; with appropriate Selections from Scrip- 
ture, and Tunes suited to the metres of the hymns. By Charles D. Cleveland. Second 
edition, revised and improved. (.Just published, July, 1851.) 

In this little volume are grouped together the choicest sacred lyrics of our language; 
there being one for each day in the year, and additional hymns for special occasions. Each 
hymn is prefaced by an appropriate Scripture-text; and the notes of a number of tunes are 
appended, whose beaiity has kept them popular, notwithstanding the love of change which 
go generally prevails. In this edition, also, the names of the authors of the hymns ara 
giv^-n, which to manj' readers will add interest to tlie volume. 

The work is now used in seminaries of the very first rank in Boston, New York, Philar 
delphia. &c. &c. 

6 



E. C. & J. BIDDLE'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 



CRITTENDEN'S BOOK-KEEPING. 



AN INDUCTIVE AND PRACTICAL TREATISE ON BOOK- 

^^^ ,01 a T^;!,nMp Vntvv desioned for the use of Private Students, Schools, and 

criciil»Uons ; a tablo ot Foreisn Coins and Honeys of Account, fa. By S. W. Crittcnuen, 
*''2S-°Sra't portion of the -work ospcciaUy adapted to impart a knowledge of the general 

-HBWi^us':ri°n°;;^srie?cSfs?isst^f=^^^^ 

and Cincinnati , ana busea 1 u y elementary portion is simple, clear, comprehensive, 

SUd-nyp^ogSv'f 

THE HEW ABIERICAH SPEAKER. 
BEING A SELECTION OF SPEECHES, DIALOGUES, AND 

POETRY for tlie Use of Schools. By Thomas Hughes. 

ETYHOLOGICAL CLASS-BOOKS. 

1 LYND'S FIRST BOOK OF ETYMOLOGY. 
2* LYND'S CLASS-BOOK OF ETYMOLOGY. 
T OSWALD'S ETYMOLOGICAL DICTIONARY AND KE\. 

resigne^d toTrioS precLVin the use, and facilitate the acquisition of a knowledge o: 
the English language. . ,-„+rnn,ippd in whole or in part, as text-books in the pub- 

ucSi^Vf^stirBS""'™-^'"^^^^^^^^ 

^ T, -r T ^ nrrrf Pnnciml of the Philaddphia Central High School. 

o.,r.5"£:riti;?~^^^^^^ 

-dd^jr^f-i^rs^SiS'WJIiS^^^^^^^^^^^ 

subject and able successfully to ^^^.^t them. 1 haje 10 ^^^^^ ^^^^ .^^ greatest ad- 

priiary importance, and I a^ free to ^ay, tha. I h^f^j^^^^^^^ethod of teaching it. The 
Vance that has yet been "^^f ..^^^-tl^^'^^f ~1 ttiat the study of the analysis of words 
conviction has been for some ^^'^^ jamm giouna^ ^^^^^^^ ^^ combining them- 

into their elements, of the ^f ^,°^^^f J^Vv-fs ^^^^^^^ especially to the mero English scho- 
:n other words, the ?tY'^^y. ^^ ^^/"^.Sc^sln of t^^^^ These exercises also, like 

lar, to a proper and "^^ll^S^.^V Xtl!^^ stadv of lan-uage, have been found to be one of 
all rational exercises «>^^^f ^d w h the stxid^^^^^^^ 'But hitherto serious difficviltie3 

the most efficient means of disciplmmg the y^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ necessities of 

have been experienced fr«°^^\^^^^^^^?* if^^e omi^ ^hat they believed to be an ™Portan 
English scholars; and many teachers nave "i"'^^ teachin"- it had been presented that 

branch of primary i^^^^^^i^n, because no^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ remove this diffi- 

seemed sufficiently practicaJ Mr. Ljndsboa^^^^^^^ reference to the wants of scliolars 

l^^r tSXrdi^ptroJSSnl ^a on^a plan that can hardly fail to commend itself 
at sight to the experienced teacher. ^^^^^_^_ respectfully, JOHN S. HART. 

Philadelphia, June 15, 1847. 

^•om P>-ofess.' C. D. Cleveland. arMr. of " Latin Lessons,^^ "Latin ^rarn^nar;' ^v. 
G^Mf/lnrepubl^ing^'OswaM.^^^^ 
the sensible and well-written '' I^.^^^^uctK^^f D^ schools) that 

to the cause of sound educatum. It ^^ the best work ottnt k - well-regulated 

I have yet seen, and it ""f^^^rFtySoW wTl ^^^^^^ ^'^•'^^^'^ ^^ ''''^/ '■"' 

school, taught by competent mastti s, f;^y™"'"">^^" clearness of thought and a correct U3« 

STani'age" "" " ^^^'^^'^^^^ ^"S'iSrr-pSS;I" C.° D. CLEVELAND 



E. C. & J. BIDDLE'S SCHOOL PUBLICATIONS. 
TREGO'S GEOGRAPHY OF PENNSYLVANIA. 

A GEOGRAPHY OF PENNSYLVANIA, containing an Account 

of the History, Geographical Features, Soil, Climate, Geology, Botany, Zoology, Population, 
Education, Government, Finances, Productions, Trade, Kailroads, Canals, &c., of the State ; 
•with a separate Description of each County, and Questions for the convenience of Teachers. 
By Charles B. Trego, late Assistant State Geologist, &c. i-c. Illustrated by a Map of the 
State and numerous engravings. 

OUTLINES OF SACRED HISTORY, 

From the Creation of the World to the Destruction of Jerusalem. 

With Questions for Examination. Intended for the use of Schools and Families. Kew edi- 
tion, enlarged aiid improved. Illustrated with 34 engravings on wood. 

Published in London, under the direction of the Committee of General Literature and 
Education, appointed by the Society for promoting Christian Knowledge. 

. The above-named work is used as a class-book in the Academical Department of the Uni- 
versity of Pennsylvania. 

Eoctractfrom the last Annual Repmi, of Hit late Superintendent of (hmmon ScJwdls of the city 
and county of Kew York — Col. Win. L. Stone. 

" But there are several other books wanted in those schools, (under the care of the Pub- 
lic School Society,) among which is a good compend of Sacred History. * * The officers of 
the District Schools of the fourteenth ward have adopted ' Outlines of Sacred History' — au 
abridgment of great excellence." 

JOHNSON'S MOFFAT'S NATURAL PHILOSOPHY. 

A SYSTEM OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, designed for the use 

of Schools and Academies, on the basis of Mr. J. M. Moffat ; comprising Mechanics, Hydro- 
statics, Hydraulics, Pneumatics, Acoustics, Pyronomics, Optics, Electricity, Galvanism and 
Magnetism ; with Emendations, Notes, Questions for Examination, &c., &c. By Professor 
W. R. Johnson. 
The title of this work has been changed from " Scientific Class-Book, Part I." 

JOHNSON'S MOFFAT'S CHEMISTRY. 

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON CHEMISTRY, together 

with Treatises on Metallurgy, Mineralogy, Crystallography, Geology, Oryctology, and Me- 
ieorology, designed for the use of Schools and Academies ; on the basis of Mr. J. M. Moffat ; 
with Additions, Emendations, Notes, Keferences, Questions for Examination, &c., &c. By 
Professor W. R. Johnson. 
The title of this work has been changed from " Scientific Class-Book, Part II." 
The above-named works by Prof Johnson are iised as text-books in many Colleges, Acade- 
mies, and High Schools of respectable standing in various sections of the Union. 

FBSNDH LESSONS FOR EESINNSHS. 

L'ABEILLE POUR i«S ENFANS, OU LECONS FRAN- 

CATSES, lere Partie, ^ I'usage des ecoles. 

This work, as its name imports, is designed for the First Reading-book. The style is sim- 
ple, the sentences short, and containing fow idioms, inversions, or diflficultics. At the end 
of each page is a translation of the idiomatic expressions it contains, and of the words used 
in an acceptation not given in the dictionary. The work has been compiled with special 
reference to moral tendency. 

SANBFORH AND MERTON IN FRENCH. 

THE STORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON. By Thomas 

Day. Translated into French by M. Berquin. Designed as a Re;Kling-book for Juvenile classes, 

J)-om Professor Brtgy, of ttie Philadelphia Central High School. 

Phil.\delphia, January 24, 1848. 
Gentlemen — No better idea could have been suggested to you than that of republishing 
this work of Berquin. 

Among the French popular writers he occupies a place secondary to no one ; the purity 
of his style is unsurpassed, and he has been properly called the Historian of Young age, 
wliich he pictures both as it is and should be. 
The morality of all his works tends to awalce the noblest and purest sentiments of the mind. 
With my best wishes for the success of the work, should you publish it, 

I remain yours, most respectfully, F. A, BREGT. 



E. C. & J. BIDDLE'S 

MISOELLAIEOUE FUBLIGATIOIS. 



AIKIN. — Tlie Cliristian Minstrel. With a New System of Musical Notation. 8vo. 

AIKIN.— The Juvenile Minstrel. With a New System of Musical Notation. 12mo. 

AMERICAN ORATORY.— Select Speeches of distinguished American Orators. 8vo. 

CANNING.— Select Speeches of the Rt. Hon. George Canning. 8vo. 

CHATHAM, BURKE, AND ERSKINE.— Select Speeches of. Svo. 

CHRISTIAN LIBRARY.— 2 vols., imperial Svo. 

CLEVELAND. — A Compendium of English Literature, chronologically arranged, from 
the earliest period to the close of the 18th century. Large 12mo. 

COMMON SCHOOL JOURNAL of the State of Pennsylvania, for the year 1844. Svo. 

CRITTENDENS' Double-Entry Book-Kceping. Counting-IIouse Edition. Sup. royal Svo. 
(Blank Books for the Countiug-House, and School editions, published by 
E. C. & J. B.) 

DICK— The Works of Thomas Dick, LL. D. 10 vols., 12mo. Embellished with a portrait 
of the author in steel, and with wood-cuts representing 500 different objects. 
Vol. 1.— PHILOSOPHY OF A FUTURE STATE. 12mo. 
" 2.~PHIL0S0PHY OF RELIGION. 12mo. 
« 3.— THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHER. Fine edition. 12mo. 
«' 4.— ON THE IMPROVEMENT OF SOCIETY. 12mo. 
« 5.— ESSAY ON COVETOUSNESS. 12mo. 
« 6.— ON MENTAL ILLUMINATION AND MORAL IMPROVEMENT OP 

MANKIND. 12mo. 
« 7.— CELESTIAL SCENERY. 12mo. 
« 8.— THE SIDEREAL HEAVENS. 12mo. 
" 9.— THE PRACTICAL ASTRONOMER. 12mo. 

« 10.— THE SOLAR SYSTEM, AND ON THE ATMOSPHERE AND ATMO- 
SPHERICAL PHENOMENA. 12mo. 
in=- CHEAP EDITION.— The above-named 10 vols., containing more than 3,600 duo« 
decimo pages, neatly bound in 5 vols., and sold for !$3 25. 

DUNTiAP.- A Book of Forms. Svo. 

FISKE. — Manual of Classical Literature ; from the German of Eschenburg. Svo. 

FISKE. — Supplemental Volume of Plates illustrating the Manual of Classical Literature. 
Svo. 

FOSTER. — An Address to the Young on the Importance of Religion. 32mo. 

HALL.— The Beauties of Robert Hall. ISmo. 

HOOKER.— The Family Book of Devotion. Svo. 

McKENNEY AND HALL.— History of the Indian Tribes of North America. With 120 
colored portraits. Folio, in 20 numbers. 

PASTORAL LETTERS, from the House of Bishops to the Members of the P. E. Church 
in the Umt,od States. 12mo. 

PHILLIPS, CURRAN, GRATTAN, AND EMMET.— Select Speeches of. Svo. 

ROBINSON CRUSOE.— In a style adapted to the capacity of the Young. 16mo. 

BLEIGH. — The Christian's Defensive Dictionary. 12mo. 

TAYLOR.- Life of the Poet Cowper, 12mo. 

WINDHAM AND HUSKISSON.— Select Speeches of the Rt Hon. Wm. Wmdham and 
the Right Hon. Wm. Huskisson. Svo. 

WILBERFORCE.— Practical View of the Prevaihng Religious System of Professed Chri* 

tians, &c. 12mo. 



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